Clocks Out of Order
by QueenOfTheDreamers87
Summary: Tomione - sequel to the completed fic All the Wrong Choices.
1. Chapter 1

December 1949

"My Lord, Miss Arden Colporter is here to speak with you."

Voldemort nodded where he stood, his hands clasped behind his back, as he stared out the window onto the moonlit expanse of the gardens below Malfoy Manor.

"Send her in, Avery."

A few moments later, there was the soft sound of a clearing throat behind Voldemort. He turned round to see Arden Colporter, the reporter from the Daily Prophet, standing in the threshold of his office. Arden Colporter was a tall, lanky woman, perhaps thirty years of age, with dark brown curls and a neatly tailored pencil skirt beneath elegant red velvet robes. She was not unattractive, but Voldemort still felt rather uncomfortable at the way the witch eyed him as she said,

"Good evening, Mr Riddle."

"I prefer not to use that name anymore, if you please," Voldemort said tightly, gesturing to the two armchairs before the fire burning in the large hearth. Arden Colporter looked mildly surprised, and she cleared her throat gently as she moved to sit opposite him. She raised her penciled eyebrows and asked cautiously,

"What shall I call you in the article, then?"

"'The Dark Lord' shall suffice for the time being," Voldemort nodded. Arden Colporter looked uncomfortable and shifted a bit in her chair. Voldemort watched her sceptically, and then she said,

"I hope you understand… it's just… if I use that sort of term in a newspaper, it will be seen as recognising the legitimacy of your… movement."

"Hmm." Voldemort nodded once, curtly. He flicked his eyes over to the small table beside the hearth and asked casually, "May I get you something to drink, Miss Colporter?"

"No, thank you," Arden Colporter said firmly, shaking her head. Voldemort nodded again and flicked his hand loosely toward the table, wandlessly and nonverbally Summoning a crystal tumbler and a bottle of firewhisky. He poured himself a bit and then Vanished the expensive liquor bottle, again without wand or incantation. Miss Colporter looked as though she were trying not to seem impressed. She shifted again, and Voldemort sipped upon his whisky. Then he said quietly,

"My 'movement,' as you call it, is not about me, Miss Colporter. I aim to advance the whole of wizardkind, through the promotion of new methods, spells, and Magical technologies, and through efforts to unite the Magical community into a well-functioning society again. The world around us - the Muggle world - is, to be kind, chaotic at present. If wizardkind is to flourish, even in such a mad world, it shall take a strong and determined figurehead to guide the change."

Arden Colporter's pale cheeks flushed a bit, and she swallowed heavily as she said again, "But I can not give you the title you ask. Not in writing. I can not call you a 'Lord,' because -"

"You may not write of me with my former name," Voldemort insisted, shaking his head. He raised his tumbler of whisky in a mock toast and sipped. "You're a journalist, Miss Colporter. Some creativity, perhaps?"

She looked angry for a moment, and Voldemort felt a surge of irritation in his veins. Public relations and outreach were necessary as he attempted to gain popular support for his claim to power. The necessity of such outreach did not make the process any less obnoxious, however. Hermione had told Voldemort he was 'due' for another major article, to keep himself present in the hearts and minds of the wizarding public. Today he was meeting with Arden Colporter ostensibly to discuss the five year anniversary of Grindelwald's death. Instead, the meeting thus far felt rather like a debate about nomenclature.

"Grindelwald has been dead for five years now," Arden Colporter said at last, and Voldemort nodded calmly.

"So he has."

Colporter huffed and pulled out her quill and parchment. She poised the nib of the quill just above the paper as she asked,

"What has changed since then?"

"For me personally?" Voldemort specified tersely.

"In general." Arden Colporter shrugged and curled up her lips.

Voldemort swigged down the last of his whisky and sighed deeply. This interview would take longer than he had planned.

* * *

December 1945

The Christmas season had settled over Malfoy Manor like a fur mantle, warming the stone walls with its optimistic cheer. Hermione smiled gently to herself as she strode through the first-floor corridor, noting that there were new garlands and wreaths each day.

"I've finally decided upon a gift for Abraxas," Betty Cattermole said from beside Hermione. The blonde witch bounced eagerly as she walked and squealed softly, "I'm going to get him a Cleansweep Five - the very latest model of broomstick, and the fastest, by all accounts!"

Betty prattled on for a few more minutes about how much Abraxas would love his new broomstick. Hermione could not help but grin. In 'her' time, Cleansweep Five broomsticks were mocked as outdated and useless compared to the newest models. Hermione remembered how much faster Harry had been able to fly when he'd received his new Firebolt, and she sighed a little at the melancholy of that.

"I think that's a marvelous gift, Betty," Hermione said mechanically, flashing her friend the warmest smile she could muster. Betty nodded happily and asked,

"What are you giving to the Dark Lord?"

Hermione swallowed heavily then and abruptly wished she were not walking down the corridor with Betty. The Christmas cheer was being rather depleted by this conversation, which had triggered memories of her old life and had forced her to contemplate the same issue she'd been thinking on for weeks. It was not exactly an easy task to obtain a useful or quality gift for the man promoting himself as the pseudo-dictator of the wizarding world.

"Honestly," Hermione admitted, pausing in her walk to examine a cheerful wreath, "I've no idea. He's not much for material things, you know."

Betty nodded knowingly. It was true; the only things Tom craved in life were immaterial - power, authority, respect, and, Hermione hoped, her love. If she were to publicly give him some sort of useless trinket for Christmas, it would hardly serve to reinforce his claims of legitimacy. Hermione huffed out a heavy breath and eyed the fireplace at the end of the corridor.

"I think I might go to Knockturn Alley," she said carefully, "and have a talk with Mr Caractacus Burke. Perhaps he can inspire me. Will you come with me, Betty?"

An hour later, the young women had Flooed their way to London, wound their way through the maze of tight back-alleys from Diagon to Knockturn, and arrived at Borgin and Burke's. Just as they were about to step inside, Hermione felt a firm clasp upon her shoulder.

She instinctively clutched her wand and held it out as she whirled around. Being with Tom had made her even more paranoid than she'd been around Harry Potter. But she lowered her wand when she saw that the hand upon her shoulder belonged to a wizened, ancient witch, stooped and stiff. Her milky eyes made Hermione think she must be blind. Beside her, Betty shivered a bit at the sight of the old woman, whose voice creaked out,

"You're lost, my dear."

"I'm not. Thank you just the same," Hermione insisted, pulling her shoulder gently from the woman's grasp. But the woman pressed on in her rickety voice,

"How can you ever go home now? Even if it were still a real place to go?"

Hermione felt a cold flush through her veins then, as she realised the aged witch knew her secret. She gulped and stumbled backward, feeling Betty reach out to steady her.

"Be gone, old woman," Betty snapped rudely, and a small grin crossed the woman's wrinkled visage.

"People change time, and the time changes the people right back!" she said, letting out a gravelly laugh. She stooped ever lower and shuffled slowly away from Hermione and Betty. Hermione trembled a bit, tightening her grip around her wand, and she heard Betty mumble,

"Batty old hat. Come on, My Lady; do not let such people trouble you. Let's get inside. It's quite chilly."

The inside of Borgin and Burke's was hardly warmer than outside, and its macabre mood did little to rid Hermione of her acute unease. She and Betty wandered about the shop for a few minutes, eyeing little curiosities until a very old wizard stepped out from the back room.

"Good morning, ladies," he greeted them, and Hermione and Betty snapped to attention. Hermione swept toward the front desk, her black velvet cape dragging behind her on the uneven floorboards. Betty followed close behind. The old wizard peered at them over the rims of little brass spectacles, and he asked tightly, "May I help you find something?"

"My name is Hermione Villeneuve," Hermione pronounced, wondering whether that meant anything to anyone yet. It did, apparently; the old wizard's pale eyes flashed and his throat bobbed a bit. He inclined his head and murmured,

"My Lady. I hope you know I sent instructions with my grandson, Jericho Burke, to inform the Dark Lord that he - and you, of course - are welcome to anything in my shop."

"I do know that," Hermione nodded, pulling a small purse from her cloak, "but I am here as a paying customer, Mr Burke. I need a gift for my husband for Christmas. Something… extraordinary."

She pushed the little purse, containing about thirty Galleons, across the front desk. Caractacus Burke stared down at it for a moment and then flicked his eyes from Betty to Hermione. He did not touch the purse of coins, but cleared his throat gently and said,

"I believe I have just the thing, My Lady."

He bowed a bit and turned to walk away, retreating into the back room of the shop once more. Hermione looked nervously to Betty, who shrugged. The witches waited in tense silence for a few moments until Caractacus Burke came back out. He placed a dull golden piece of jewelry down upon the dusty countertop, and Hermione stepped nearer to see what it was.

She furrowed her thick brows as she picked up a battered old locket, tarnished and dented and seemingly unremarkable. On its cover, though, Hermione could see there was a snake in the shape of the letter 'S', crafted from emeralds. One or two appeared to be missing, but Hermione knew it was no accident that an ancient locket with a snake symbol had been presented as a potential gift for Lord Voldemort. She set the locket back down upon the counter and eyed Burke warily.

"What is it?" she asked. Beside her, Betty Cattermole sidled up and peered at the ugly bit of jewelry.

"This is the locket of Salazar Slytherin," Caractacus Burke said carefully, and Hermione felt a strange pit in her stomach. In her old life, she had been Petrified by the basilisk released by Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, as he claimed his position as the 'Heir of Slytherin.' To see this locket, apparently a possession of Salazar Slytherin himself, and to tie it to her husband, was difficult. She gulped and looked up to Caractacus Burke.

"How did you obtain this?" she pressed, wanting to ensure this wasn't a murder prize the way she knew Tom's ring had been.

Burke lowered his eyes shamefully and murmured, "It was brought to me, some years ago, by a ragged young woman desperate for a few coins. Merope Gaunt - the mother of the Dark Lord. This locket had been in her family for so long that the locket was worth more than the family itself. But I admit I paid her virtually nothing for it. Perhaps ten Galleons. A few years ago, I was offered a hefty sum for the piece by a wealthy witch called Hepzibah Smith. I was in the final stages of selling it to her when I received a strange correspondence warning me to keep the locket away from Madam Smith."

Hermione's heart thudded in her chest. Who had written to Burke? Hermione-in-the-future? Tom-in-the-future? Or someone else entirely? She sighed through her nostrils, trying to keep her face impassive, and she nodded.

"My husband will be relieved to regain possession of such an important family heirloom," she said carefully, picking up the locket once more. She dusted her thumb over the inlaid emeralds and asked, "How much for it, sir?"

But Caractacus Burke shook his head vehemently and held his hands up. "I couldn't accept a Knut for it," he declared, and for some reason Hermione thought he was being honest about that. The old man continued, "Please gift it to the Dark Lord on my behalf, with sincerest apologies that I did not compensate Miss Gaunt more appropriately years ago."

Hermione nodded and tucked the locket into the pouch at her waist. She took back the purse of coins she had placed on the countertop, and she turned to Betty with a plastered little smile.

"That's Christmas sorted, then," she said with false merriment. "Care for a butterbeer before we head back, Betty?"

* * *

December, 1969

Georgiana blinked slowly as she pulled her head up from the parchment where she'd fallen asleep. She looked with bleary eyes about the Hogwarts library and cursed under her breath when she realised everyone else had gone. She began stuffing books into her rucksack hastily, hoping she could sneak back to Ravenclaw Tower without anyone noticing.

"You've got ink on your face," she heard then, and she whirled round to see Bilius Weasley standing behind her chair. Georgiana gasped quietly and hesitated for a moment before resuming her frantic preparations to leave.

"What time is it?" she asked Bilius absently.

"Nearly ten-thirty. That's why I came back here; I was doing patrols and thought I might check to ensure the Lady Georgiana wasn't having a camp-out in the library. Sure enough… here you are."

Georgiana huffed and pouted a bit, flying to her feet as she flung her rucksack over her shoulder. "Damned History of Magic essay was taking an eternity to write," she mumbled, starting to stride quickly from the library as Bilius followed her. "Couldn't get my thoughts straight on Goblin-Wizarding relations of the seventeenth -"

"Georgie," Bilius said softly then, and Georgiana paused near the library doors. She turned round and furrowed her brows at Bilius. He raked his fingers through his ginger hair and said, "My brother Arthur's asked Molly to marry him."

"Molly Prewett?" Georgiana asked, feeling a wave of disbelief come over her. In the past few decades, the pureblood Prewett family had fallen deeply out of favour with Lord Voldemort and his movement, owing apparently to some terrible sin committed by a certain Maggie Prewett years earlier. Georgie knew few details; she only knew that her parents despised anyone related to Maggie Prewett. Molly, a girl two years older than Georgiana, was Maggie's niece.

Bilius sighed heavily. "She's a nice girl, Georgie -"

"She's my father's enemy," Georgiana said firmly. "Arthur marrying her will bring shame upon the entire Weasley family. You know that."

"Yes, I know that," Bilius agreed. He gnawed upon his bottom lip for a moment and said softly, "Of course I understand entirely if you think it uncouth to be my friend through all this -"

"That isn't the point, Bilius!" Georgiana said shrilly. "It's dangerous to be my father's enemy."

"I know that, too," Bilius nodded. He hesitated for a moment and then at last said, "You and I have been friends for a great long while, Georgie. You're a girl. I'm a boy. People already suspect things about us, you know. They talk and whisper and gossip. I don't want them saying those things about you just now. I don't want any of that getting back to your parents, hm?" His characteristic joy had vanished, and he flicked his brown eyes to the grandfather clock behind Georgiana. "Now, off to Ravenclaw Tower with you, Miss Gaunt. It's past curfew."

Bilius reached out to brush his knuckles over Georgiana's cheekbone. He flashed her a sad little smile and leaned down to touch his lips to her forehead. Then he strode quickly from the library, leaving Georgiana alone in stunned silence.

* * *

December 1945

Lord Voldemort finished fastening his cufflinks, eyeing the golden trinkets carefully for a moment. They'd been an early Christmas gift from the Nott family, and were quite valuable from Voldemort's understanding. He sniffed lightly and examined himself in the full-length mirror before him.

This was the night of the Christmas soiree at Malfoy Manor, which was being hosted by the Malfoy family as a sort of gesture of good faith to Lord Voldemort. Invitations had been extended to all those who had thus far declared unconditional loyalty. As far as Voldemort knew, the entirety of the original Knights of Walpurgis would be there, along with prominent members of wizarding families like the Longbottoms, Moodys, Lestranges, Potters, and Blacks. As much as Voldemort despised small-talk and mindless socialisation at such events, he knew that ingratiating himself to "the public" would be critical to a successful ascent.

He thought himself rather well put-together tonight, as he surveyed his reflection in the mirror. The tuxedo beneath his sweeping black over-robe was well-tailored and gave him a confident, mature appearance. It was difficult, Voldemort thought, to be not-quite-nineteen and yet attempt to command authority over the entire wizarding populace.

There was a gentle knock upon the bedroom door then, and Voldemort barked out, "Enter."

The door creaked open, and a wrinkled old House-Elf in a tattered sack appeared on the threshold.

"Yes?" Voldemort asked, turning round and cocking an eyebrow. The House-Elf (male or female, Voldemort could not say) bowed deeply and intoned,

"My Lord… the Lady is ready to be escorted to the party now!" The House-Elf hesitated, still bowed over, and Voldemort sniffed lightly,

"Very well. You may go."

The House-Elf nodded and skittered backward out of the door frame, leaving the door ajar. Voldemort shifted upon his feet as the door was pushed open and a taller silhouette appeared. He felt rather dizzy as Hermione stepped into the warm glow of the candles in the bedroom. He heard her mumble her thanks to the House-Elf, and he smirked a bit. She had told him of how, during 'her time,' she had begun a welfare organisation on behalf of House-Elves, with whose servitude she had always been distinctly uncomfortable. She had a good heart, Voldemort thought, flicking his eyes up and down her immaculately groomed form.

"You look…" Voldemort began, pausing when his throat felt thick. Hermione smiled knowingly, and Voldemort forced himself to finish, "You look beautiful."

"Thank you, Tom." Hermione fiddled with the clasps of her cream-coloured satin cape, smoothing her matching skirts and dragging her fingernails over the elaborate silver embroidery on her torso. She looked nervously up to Voldemort and asked, "Shall we go?"

Voldemort closed the distance between them and raised his hand to cup her smooth cheek. Her lips, painted red as rubies tonight, called out for a kiss he did not dare give. He did not suspect he would be able to stop himself at a kiss just now.

Instead, Voldemort extended his arm politely, and Hermione laced hers through. She walked contentedly beside him down the corridor, toward the distant droning buzz of conversation in the large ballroom. Voldemort paused just outside the doors to the ballroom and whispered to Hermione,

"I have no interest in speaking with any of these people."

"But they have so very much interest in speaking with you, Tom," Hermione reminded him. She winked cheekily up at him then, and he nodded firmly. The doors swung open and the elegant ballroom fell silent. Voldemort felt a surge of power strike him through as he absorbed the sensation of hundreds of eyes upon him. Some seemed frightened, others curious. A great many seemed utterly infatuated. At the front of the assembled group, young Druella Rosier swayed on her feet and more tightly clutched the arm of Cygnus Black. Voldemort smirked a bit and called out confidently,

"My friends… a very Happy Christmas to you all. Your presence tonight speaks volumes about your loyalty and your convictions… about your dedication to a better wizarding future. It shall be carefully noted who joined us here tonight, and in the years to come, the Dark Lady and I shall not soon forget our earliest and dearest allies. Please, enjoy the excellent hospitality of the Malfoy family. I look forward to speaking with each of you individually."

An apparent eternity passed then, during which a blur of hors d'oeuvres and champagne and droning, empty conversation consumed the night. Voldemort and Hermione flitted from one cluster of guests to another, listening to gushing sycophants declare their support and brag of their devotion. It all became quite dull indeed, until Hermione gently pulled Voldemort away from an overly-enthusiastic old witch and toward a new cluster of guests.

"Pollux Black, My Lord." A middle-aged wizard bowed as they approached, and Voldemort recognised him as the father of Cygnus and Walburga, who had attended Hogwarts with Tom Riddle. Cygnus stood beside his father, with Druella Rosier clinging to him like a life preserver.

"My Lord," simpered Druella, "has Cygnus informed you yet of his new position at the Ministry?"

Ordinarily, Voldemort would have been utterly uninterested in another person's life path. However, since Cygnus Black was a loyalist, and Voldemort needed Ministry insiders, he pricked up his eyebrows and said,

"Why, no, Miss Rosier. He hasn't." Voldemort turned his eyes to Cygnus and said, "You've taken a position at the Ministry, Cygnus? Where?"

"In the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, sir," Cygnus Black nodded. Beside him, his father Pollux beamed proudly. Voldemort could not help but wonder whether nepotism had been involved in obtaining a position for Cygnus in such a prestigious department of the Ministry. He found he did not care if there had been nepotism, though; all that mattered was the strategic placement of allies.

Voldemort sipped casually at his champagne, flicking his eyes to where Hermione was chatting animatedly with a group of young witches. He turned back to Cygnus and asked,

"What shall you be doing in your new position?"

Cygnus cleared his throat and said, "I… erm… for now, My Lord, I shall merely be processing paperwork for criminal cases going before the Wizengamot. Something of a clerk position. But in my capacity as a departmental employee, I overhear bits of conversation from time to time among the Aurors."

The rest of the room seemed to dissolve away as this bit of news captured Voldemort's full attention. His face went stony then, and he demanded, "And what have you heard thus far, Cygnus?"

The boy looked quite nervous then, and Druella Rosier squeezed him more tightly than ever. Cygnus shifted where he stood and stammered, "I - I was filing old case documents just yesterday, My Lord, when I overheard two Auror trainees discussing Albus Dumbledore. It was Maggie Prewett and someone else I did not immediately recognise - a male Scot, from my estimation. I hunched down and Disillusioned myself between the filing shelves, and I listened. They thought the room was empty, I suppose. Anyway, Miss Prewett was telling her companion that Albus Dumbledore had recently approached her with an offer of supplementary income, if she agreed to 'help eliminate the threat of Lord V -'"

Cygnus went pale then, and his words caught in his throat as he seemed to realise he could not speak the Dark Lord's name.

"Lord Voldemort," finished the boy once called Tom Riddle. Cygnus nodded frantically, and his cheeked coloured again as he said,

"The young man with Miss Prewett… he laughed, My Lord. Please know these were his words and not mine. He said, 'Dumbledore's gone batty if he thinks that boy is any sort of a real threat. The last thing the Ministry needs to be doing now is starting another war. Tom Riddle is an aspirational pretender whose fame will soon enough snuff itself out.'"

Voldemort squared his jaw, feeling his veins flush with anger. "And then what happened?" he intoned dully, noticing the way Druella Rosier looked suddenly ill.

"And then," Cygnus said quietly, lowering his eyes, "Miss Prewett agreed with her companion, and they said they were off to relax at the pub."

Voldemort was silent and still for a moment. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear people chattering, could hear the whining strains of the hired string ensemble. But he was lost in his own mind for a brief instant as he contemplated whether he should have simply eliminated Maggie Prewett after she tried to assassinate him with a snake at Hogwarts. After she'd nearly murdered Hermione.

"Thank you, Cygnus," Voldemort nodded. "Your loyalty will not be soon forgotten. See Abraxas Malfoy after the party and tell him I've ordered twenty Galleons deposited into your Gringotts vault at once."

Pollux Black bowed deeply then and murmured, "That is not necessary, My Lord -"

"Good evening to you all," Voldemort said sharply, yanking at his tuxedo jacket. "I think there are a few more guests I have not yet greeted."

He excused himself and glided over to where Hermione stood, hunched over the flaunted engagement ring of Lucretia Black. A few other witches cooed and giggled as they discussed the ring. Betty Cattermole glanced up and saw Voldemort approaching, and she stood up straight and said quickly,

"Good evening, My Lord."

"Miss Cattermole," Voldemort acknowledged stiffly, ignoring the other witches' curtsies and grins. He turned his eyes to Hermione and met her gaze. She looked anxious all of a sudden, as though she could sense something had happened.

Voldemort was about to tell Hermione that he needed to speak with her privately, but she swept in with a healthy dose of diplomatic dignity and laced her arm through Voldemort's.

"My Lord, I think I should like to dance," she said smoothly. "Shall we?"

He nodded and led her quickly away from the cluster of witches, determined to spend the entire dance measuring Hermione's opinion on the news about Maggie Prewett.

* * *

31 December, 1948

"Tom, please!"

Hermione grasped at Tom's robe as he swished past her, trying desperately to pull him back. He yanked harder away from her, whirling over his shoulder and shooting her an irate glare.

"Who else could it possibly be about, Hermione?"

Hermione frantically stared at the smashed Prophecy Record on Tom's desk as the ghostly prediction replayed itself over and again in her mind.

'The Dark Lord's ascent hinges upon the fall of his beloved... she shall enter his world unexpected and insistent... her departure shall burn a hole within him, and shall stoke the flames of his fury... the beloved shall come, and she shall go, and she shall leave a mark far Darker than any which has come before... her existence shall be snuffed out as a candle, but she shall tread the deepest of footprints. To time she is servant; her life is and was and ever will be brief.'

"Tom," Hermione said carefully, and Tom paused with his hand upon the doorknob. Hermione's voice quavered as she continued, "I have told you before that, in my time, there were Prophecies about you. About others. Choices you have made here, with me, make those prophecies utterly impossible to realise. The Prophecy about Harry Potter can not be, not now that you've ordered Charlus Potter…"

She trailed off then, feeling suddenly ill at the thought that James Potter's father - Harry Potter's grandfather - was sitting in a dank Azkaban cell to prevent James (and Harry) from existing. She fought off the nausea roiling through her and continued,

"Do something, Tom, to make this Prophecy impossible. Or else try and send me home."

Tom scoffed then, and turned slowly round to face Hermione. "Try and send you 'home'?" he repeated slowly, cocking an eyebrow at her as if she were dim. Hermione gulped and said,

"When you first sent me back in time, in the life I remember, it had been a very great while since you had seen me. You told me so yourself. You told me I had left you, that I'd been gone from you for a very long time. I can only imagine -"

Hermione's breath caught as she remembered the grey-faced monster who had sent her back in time, the red-eyed beast of a man that her husband had become in her past life. In a future that had not yet come to pass.

"I can only imagine that this Prophecy existed in your past then, too. That it was realised. That I died."

Tom grimaced and whispered, "I will not allow anyone to take you from me. You've just said it yourself, Hermione; no Prophecy is inevitable. I will not lose you this time round."

"I do not want to die, Tom," Hermione insisted, watching as Tom's eyes flashed oddly. She licked her bottom lip and said, "I want to go home."

"How many times must I tell you?" Tom growled, striding quickly to close the distance between them. "This is your home now. I am your home."

He clutched at her cheeks then, rather suddenly, eliciting a surprised gasp from Hermione. His hands tightened upon her face and he spoke through gritted teeth in a low, menacing snarl.

"There is nothing for you there - the place you left, the time I sent you from… it's gone. It's been erased. There is only now. There is only this. And I will not lose you. I can not. I will slay every last enemy. I will stop the beating of every heart who opposes me. I will defeat anyone who endangers you. But I will not lose you, Hermione."

He pushed firmly against her, forcing Hermione to stumble backward until she was against the office bookshelves. Tom grabbed roughly at her skirts, and Hermione felt dizzy and weak as she sobbed into his shoulder. He plunged himself raggedly into her against the bookshelves, grunting possessively as she burrowed her face in his jacket.

Something had changed in him, Hermione felt. She shook with anxiety as he found his release inside of her, moaning and slapping his hand against the spines of the books. He had changed, in the instant he'd heard the Prophecy, from an ambitious young wizard into a bottomless pit of Darkness. Hermione looked up into Tom's face as he pulled away from her, struggling to see the warm eyes of the boy who had kissed her at the Slug Club party, the boy who had nervously given her lilacs just after meeting her. Instead, she saw glittering black ice in his eyes. He was dangerous now, more dangerous than he'd been before.

As Hermione made her way down the empty first-floor corridor, swiping at a few stray tears, she wondered whether a bit of the Prophecy had already come to pass. Perhaps, she wondered, Tom would be empowered and emboldened by his burning desire not to lose Hermione. Perhaps his angry soul and his single-minded ambition would be sharpened by the constant fear of her death. Perhaps simply hearing the Prophecy would help pave a clearer path for him to power.

Hermione paused at a window and looked down upon the moonlit gardens. Her fingers drifted up to her neck and played with the locket that rested just below her throat. She dragged her fingertip over the emerald 'S' there, remembering the night three years previously that she had given the locket to Tom. He'd instructed her to wear it, on his behalf, and she'd only very rarely taken it off since.

On the same chain was her skeleton key, the one from the cottage in Scotland, the one that was linked with a sophisticated Protean Charm to Tom's hunk of obsidian. Rather impulsively, Hermione wrapped her fingers around the key and shut her eyes. She swallowed heavily and thought with a great deal of concentration,

Let me go, Tom.

She opened her eyes, knowing full well that he'd been able to hear her thoughts. But she received no answer from him… just the buzzing stillness of night and the sight of the empty gardens below.

* * *

December 1949

"There were rumours last year that you and Madam Villeneuve had separated," Arden Colporter pronounced cautiously, lifting her quill from the parchment upon which she had been scribbling. The reporter raised her eyes questioningly to Voldemort and continued, "She disappeared from public life for a great long while. No formal explanation was given for her absence."

"Do you have a specific question about any of that, Miss Colporter, or are you simply informing me of what happened?" Voldemort sneered a bit, cocking up an eyebrow. Arden Colporter's cheeks coloured, and she cleared her throat softly.

"Where did Madam Villeneuve go, sir, for such a long time? Why did she so spontaneously return? And why, during her absence, did your ascent to power accelerate so dramatically?"

An uncomfortable silence settled upon the office then, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Voldemort shut his eyes for a moment, remembering how he'd stood in this very office and received a clear transmission of Hermione's thoughts.

Let me go, Tom.

He'd ignored her. He'd done more than that; he'd flung his obsidian down upon the desk and pointed his wand at it. The tip of his wand had trembled and the Vanishing spell had died upon his lips. Then he'd gone looking for Hermione, striding quickly down the corridors and calling for her.

But he never found her. Not that night, and not any night since. Not until she reappeared. The intervening months had seen him descend into his coldest, Darkest depths. With Hermione's disappearance, he had been filled with a burning sense of rage and vengeance. And his campaign had flourished. He had taken other women, using emotionless liaisons to forge and break connections, to climb ever higher up the ladder of power. Every time he'd taken one of them, he'd thought of her. Of her honey-coloured eyes, of the smell of lilacs upon her skin. But she'd never come back. Not until quite recently.

"What happened?" Arden Colporter asked again. Voldemort sighed through his nostrils and dragged his tongue over his slick teeth. His hands tightened upon the arms of his chair, and he mumbled,

"That is something I do not care to discuss, Miss Colporter. Next question, if you please."


	2. Chapter 2

December 1945

"So what do you intend to do about it?" Hermione stared up at Tom's face as he guided her slowly about the dance floor. Behind her, the string ensemble played a solemn waltz, and she and Tom were surrounded by smiling couples as they danced. But she could see only his eyes in the boisterous room. He'd just informed her that Maggie Prewett and Albus Dumbledore had apparently been discussing the 'threat' of Lord Voldemort. Hermione still had difficulty viewing Albus Dumbledore through such a fundamentally different lens than she had done in her own time. In fact, she still couldn't accept that Albus Dumbledore was a bad man. The problem was that he was the mortal enemy of Hermione's husband, and, therefore, must be her enemy, too.

"I intend on keeping a closer eye upon the Aurors for now," Tom murmured, "and on Albus Dumbledore himself. I shall need a well-placed insider at Hogwarts. Students who are younger than us and still attend will keep in contact with me, I'm sure, but Dumbledore knows full well who my closest allies are there. I need someone in whom he will confide, or someone who might overhear valuable information that Dumbledore does not intend to share. For the time being, an... elimination effort of either Maggie Prewett or Dumbledore seems unwise. I need to have more unanimous support before I can undertake a mission like that."

Hermione felt a wave of nausea crash over her, to hear Tom speak about plotting more murders. She gulped heavily and tried to clear her head, glancing behind Tom to where Betty Cattermole was dancing with Abraxas Malfoy. She sighed a bit and said softly,

"What about a portrait?"

Tom furrowed his brows and shook his head a bit in confusion. Hermione licked her bottom lip and clarified, "There is a portrait of Armand Malfoy here in the Manor, you know. Armand was the first Malfoy to come to Britain, during the age of William the Conqueror. There is a replica portrait of Armand on the third-floor corridor of Hogwarts."

Tom frowned and looked sceptical. "Don't you suppose Dumbledore knows about the portraits?" he asked, and Hermione dragged her teeth over her lip. She wondered how much Dumbledore could possibly know about the Manor in Wiltshire. Had he ever even been to Malfoy Manor?

"I doubt he knows there are two portraits," Hermione said carefully, as the waltz finished and another began. Tom smoothly transitioned them into the new dancing tempo, and Hermione continued, "Besides, even if Dumbledore did find out, or already know, that there are matching portraits here and at Hogwarts, wouldn't you want the portrait of Armand working for you? The last thing you need is Dumbledore recruiting the portrait for his own spying purposes."

Tom shut his eyes for a moment and let out a quivering breath through his nostrils. "This is why I'm quite glad to have you, Hermione," he said after a long moment. Hermione opened her mouth, unsure of how to respond, but Tom leaned down and kissed her gently. He tasted like champagne. "I shall speak with the portrait tomorrow," he told her, "and arrange to keep better watch over Dumbledore. Thank you."

Hermione nodded. "I have a Christmas gift for you," she said then. It was still days until Christmas, but she found herself rather unable to conceal what she'd obtained for Tom from him. She was too excited to give it to him. She leaned up upon her toes and put her lips to Tom's ear, forcing him to pause as they danced. His hand tightened around Hermione's waist curiously, and Hermione whispered, "The locket of Salazar Slytherin shall be returning to its rightful owner."

Tom pulled away from her, his eyes going wide and glittering a bit. She felt him wordlessly push into her mind, and she took down her Occlumency shields and let him in. She pushed forward memories of going to Borgin and Burke's, of hearing Caractacus Burke tell her of how Merope Gaunt had sold the trinket for a pittance. She showed Tom a picture, in her mind, of the tarnished old locket as it lay upon the counter in the shop. Then she felt a shock at her waist as uncontrolled magic burst forth from Tom's hand.

"Where is it?" he asked quickly, his voice a hungry whisper. Hermione flicked her brows up, surprised to see him so lustful over a simple gift. Certainly, she had been delighted at the prospect of giving Tom something he actually wanted, but she had not anticipated him reacting this strongly to the idea of Slytherin's locket.

"It... it's in the drawer of my boudoir, in our bedroom," Hermione informed him. She watched Tom's throat bob as he gulped, watched his sparkling black eyes flicker around the room as he muttered,

"Let's go."

"Tom, the party is still -"

"I've grown quite weary of the party," Tom informed her firmly. He took her hand in his and rather pulled her from the dance floor. Hermione tried not to make a visible scene of fighting him, so she trotted behind him as she hissed through a smile,

"You can't leave now! Everyone is still here! Tom. Tom, wait! I will give it to you later tonight. I promise."

Finally, he whirled around and nodded, seeming to accept that he still had obligations in the ballroom.

"One more hour," he said breathlessly, "and then I want to see it."

Hermione nodded and widened her rather clownish smile, dragging her thumb over Tom's wrist to try and calm him. "One hour," she agreed. "Now, why don't you go around and thank everyone for coming, hm?"

The next hour passed in a blur, with Tom and Hermione flitting from one cluster of guests to another and slowly bidding everyone goodnight. The itch in Tom's veins was palpable, and by the time they excused themselves, he was practically vibrating with energy. He dragged Hermione through the corridors with a myopic focus on reaching their bedroom expeditiously.

"I didn't think you'd be quite this happy about it," Hermione admitted as he flung open the bedroom door. She followed him inside and giggled, "and to think, I was terribly worried about getting you something useless, something you wouldn't -"

"Accio Slytherin's Locket," Tom said confidently, jabbing his wand toward the boudoir. The drawer slid quickly open and the golden locket flew through the air. Tom reached out and deftly captured it, staring at the trinket as though it were the only thing keeping him alive. Hermione studied Tom's face as he turned the locket over in his hand. It was, admittedly, a bit frightening to see the flash in his eyes (Red? Had it been a red flash there?), to see the way his lips parted, to hear his breath quicken.

"I'm so glad you like it," Hermione said nervously, unsure of what else to say. She shifted upon her feet and wrung her hands a bit in front of her cream satin gown. "It's with its rightful owner now," she said again, just as she'd done on the dance floor and just as Burke had done in the store.

Tom shocked her then by reaching down and ensnaring his hands rather roughly in her hair. The cold metal of the locket in his left hand touched her face, and Hermione shut her eyes as Tom leaned down and crushed her mouth with his. She wondered absently how much he'd had to drink at the party, for his behaviour had quickly devolved into something animalistic and uncontrolled as he urged her backward toward the bed.

"Evanesca," she heard him pant, and he dragged his hands over her form. Hermione gasped as she felt a sudden chill and lightness and realised he'd Vanished her (very expensive and beautiful) cream gown.

"You can't Vanish my clothes just because you are too lazy to take them off!" she protested, as Tom summarily did away with her undergarments. She scowled at him, and he replied by giving a gruff laugh under his breath.

"I can do whatever I damned well please," he reminded her. Hermione huffed and prepared to scold Tom again, but then he encouraged her to lie upon her back on the overstuffed bed, and she was lost in the sight of him hovering above her. He flicked at the buttons of his shirt, baring his chest to her one bit at a time, and Hermione swallowed as she felt a wet heat between her legs. She cast her eyes upon the blanket beside her, where Tom had placed Slytherin's locket. As she stared at the emerald 'S' on its cover, she asked,

"So you're happy with my Christmas gift, then?"

"Quite happy," he affirmed. She looked back up to him and saw that he was bare from the waist up and had begun working upon the placket of his trousers. She helped his shaking, fumbling fingers, pulling out his half-hard member and groaning a bit at the feel of it in her hands.

Tom collapsed downward, one hand on each side of Hermione's shoulders as he leaned to kiss her fiercely. She stroked his manhood with one hand as he kissed her, and her other hand trailed around him and planted itself firmly upon his back. She felt the rise and fall of his shoulders as he tried to steady his breath, tasted champagne in his ferocious kiss, and she thought she might erupt into flames of want for him.

"Bloody hell, Hermione," he snarled, ripping his mouth from hers. She felt him throbbing in her hand as he stiffened and thrust against her a bit. He snatched at his wand and cast a protective spell upon Hermione's abdomen. As the warm vibration dissipated, she looked up at him and met his gaze again. His jet-black eyes, glittering in the moonlight from the window, stared down at her as his rickety breath hitched. "I love you."

Hermione giggled, wondering if he was only saying that because she'd gotten Salazar Slytherin's locket for him. Somehow, Tom sensed that question from her (whether in an explicit transmission of thought, through Legilimency, or simply through his strong observational powers).

"I love you because of a great many things you've done," he assured her, wriggling a bit and shoving his trousers off. He kicked them away and Hermione smirked up at him. She dragged her fingernails across his back, lightly enough not to hurt but firmly enough that he'd feel it. Tom wrenched his eyes shut and growled through clenched teeth, "At least give me a moment to be inside you, hm?"

Hermione was lost in him then, as he pushed into her wet entrance, aching with want. She drove her head back against the duvet, feeling pins fall loose as her elaborate style disintegrated. Tom's hands were everywhere as he steadily pistoned in and out of her. He massaged her breasts and tweaked a bit with her nipples, eliciting a low groan from somewhere in the bottom of Hermione's throat. He lapped and nibbled at her neck, and she held fast to his shoulders as the rhythmic pumping between them intensified. He was solid and enormous inside of her, and she egged him on by wrapping her legs about his waist. Hermione felt the tingling pleasure spread from between her thighs up her abdomen, down her limbs and straight into her head. Then everything exploded, quite unexpectedly, as she clenched around him and her ears grew hot and rang. She cried out his name, many times and very loudly, and she gripped him so tightly she distantly wondered if she'd leave marks. Not long after her own climax, Tom shoved his hips forward a few times and grunted like a beast, and she felt his warm seed fill her.

Hermione nearly fell asleep after they both squirmed beneath the blankets. She curled up against Tom's chest and shut her eyes, feeling a heavy fatigue come over her like a weight. Then she heard the little tinkling of the locket's chain as Tom picked it up. She cracked her eyes and watched as he examined the locket in the moonlight.

"She sold it because she had nothing left," Tom mused, dragging the pad of his thumb across the inlaid 'S' on the locket's cover. Hermione felt a twinge of unease as she stroked Tom's bare chest.

"The world was very cruel indeed to your mother," Hermione said in a soft voice, unsure of what else to say. Tom's jaw tightened and he snapped the locket open and shut a few times.

"She was a fool," he said firmly, surprising Hermione. She pushed herself up onto her elbows and shoved her hair over her shoulders, giving Tom a questioning look. He sniffed lightly and said, "Merope Gaunt was in love with the rich Muggle boy in town. He wanted nothing to do with her. So she fed him a potion, and when he figured out her deception, he abandoned her. Nothing good comes of that degree of foolishness."

Hermione furrowed her brows and reach to stroke gently at Tom's face. "You came from her - from the both of them," she said plainly, "and so, though I am sad that your mother's life ended so tragically, I confess I am not at all sorry she gave your father Love Potion. Without her deception - her 'foolishness,' - I wouldn't have you. None of us would have you."

Tom flashed her an odd look then. "I do not need your pity," he said coldly, clutching the locket more tightly in his hand. Hermione felt a bizarre flush of sorrow course through her veins, felt the ragged intimacy they'd just shared slipping away like sand through her fingers.

"It's nothing to do with pity," she insisted in a gentle murmur. "I love you. That's all. I'm glad... I'm glad for a great many things I wouldn't have thought I'd ever have reason to celebrate, Tom."

He kissed her again, more gently this time, rubbing her scalp with his fingertips as the locket dangled near Hermione's neck.

"He left her because he did not think her worthy of his attentions," he whispered against her mouth, and Hermione knew he was speaking of his father and mother. She swallowed and tried to think of something to say, but then Tom kissed her again and put his lips to her ear. "Don't ever do that to me. Don't ever leave me, Hermione. I need you, you understand?"

"I understand." Hermione nodded. Tom reached behind her neck, and she felt his fingers fumbling a bit. A moment later, he drew his hands away and she felt the solid weight of Slytherin's locket at her throat. She touched it carefully and met Tom's dark eyes once more. "I couldn't leave you even if I wanted to," she said. "But it doesn't matter, Tom. You are not your father, nor your mother. You are Lord Voldemort, and I am your Lady."

* * *

July, 1949

"This is the flat, then, dear." The old Muggle woman who had led Hermione up four flights of stairs paused outside the hallway door and caught her breath. Hermione raised her eyebrows sceptically, worried that the woman might collapse. At long last, the old woman put her key into the door and turned the creaky old knob.

Hermione stepped inside and looked about the tiny space. It wasn't much, but she had quickly learnt that there wasn't much by way of housing in postwar London. The flat was a single room, with a lumpy-looking iron bed in the corner, a small hob with a cupboard above it, a single chair, and a tattered old rug upon the dusty floorboards. Hermione nodded grimly and turned back to the old woman.

"Here's the first month's rent," she said calmly, passing over a few coins. The old woman counted them and nodded as she stuffed them into her pocket. "The loo is just down the corridor. You'll be sharing it with the rest of the floor, I'm afraid," she said, but Hermione shrugged.

"It's perfectly suitable, Mrs Harris. Thank you."

"Of course, dear. What did you say your name was, again?" The old woman narrowed her eyes, and Hermione gulped heavily.

"Granger. Hermione Granger," she said, and the old woman nodded as she turned to leave.

"Pleasant day, then, Miss Granger. I shall be seeing you, I'm sure."

A few moments later, Hermione stood alone in the tiny space, feeling her eyes burn as she realised just what she had done. She had left Malfoy Manor the night of Tom's birthday - New Year's Eve - after they'd listened to the Prophecy Record. She'd stood out in the corridor of the Manor for just a moment before shutting her eyes and Disapparating.

And when she'd appeared again, in the streets of Brixton in the south of London, she'd felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Hermione had never actually been to Brixton, nor Muggle Britain of the 1940s in general. But she'd felt safer and more liberated outside Malfoy Manor than she'd felt inside of it.

She hadn't had any Muggle money, so she had spent a few days sleeping on the streets and doing odd jobs for shop-keepers as she amassed enough coins to rent a room. The nights had been cold, though Hermione had charmed herself to be a bit warmer as she'd huddled in alleys. She'd Disillusioned herself at night and cast a few Muggle-repelling charms about herself, so that she wouldn't be attacked in the alleys where she rested. This miniscule flat in Brixton would be the first "home" she rented alone in her life, and the first "permanent" residence she would establish since leaving Tom.

Postwar London was a profoundly different place than the London Hermione had known in "her" time. Food rationing was still in place, nearly four years on from the end of the war. The damage from the Blitz was visible everywhere, from scars in brick walls to empty lots where bombed-out building had been demolished and not yet rebuilt. The "make do and mend" mentality was still in place, and the city felt a bit dour and tired.

Every hour of every day, Hermione wondered whether she should go back to Malfoy Manor. But a small bit of her decided she was too frightened - of Tom, of the Prophecy, and of the idea that she would live the rest of her existence away from the family and friends she loved so dearly. Every night, first on the streets and then later in rented spaces, Hermione worked frantically to determine a method of transporting herself back to the 1990s. One day in February, she Transfigured her features as a disguise and went to Diagon Alley, where she bought several books on time and manipulative spellwork.

She spent hours each evening researching and attempting to charm objects to return her to 'her' time. After all, Lord Voldemort had sent her back to the 1940s with use of a Portkey-type charm on the letter he'd handed her. Why couldn't Hermione do the same and send herself forward? But, as it turned out, Time Magic was complicated at best and dangerous at worst. She only ever succeeded in sending herself a few minutes forward and backward.

By March, Hermione had resigned herself to the notion that she would never see Harry and Ron again, nor her parents. Just the same, she decided that the past several months of independence had proven to be valuable experience if she were to live the rest of her life in this time. She worked as a clerk in a Muggle furniture shop, from nine until six on weekdays. Every single day, Hermione thought about going back to Tom. She missed him sometimes; she wondered what he was doing and whether he'd erased her from his own life. But she never did go back to Malfoy Manor.

Not until the day a rather curious customer entered the second-hand furniture shop where Hermione had been working. Hermione had been chatting with Will, the young war veteran and son of the shop's owner. The two were discussing the stifling heat outside when the little bell over the shop's door jangled, and a stooped old woman came shuffling into the main room of the store.

Hermione froze where she stood holding a decorative vase, her hands nearly letting the ugly thing slip to the floor and shatter. The old woman who'd come into the shop was the very same one she'd seen a few years earlier in Knockturn Alley. The milky eyes and wizened face were just the same. Hermione thought quickly, deliberately dropping the vase and letting out an exaggerated gasp of horror. She turned to Will, the owner's son.

"Will, go fetch me a broom, will you, please? Oh, I shall have to deduct this from my next pay-cheque..." Hermione let her voice trail off as Will hurried back to the store-room where they kept the cleaning supplies. Hermione could have Vanished the mess, or repaired the vase, and the old woman wouldn't have minded a bit, she suspected. Hermione dashed over to the ancient witch and asked accusingly,

"Who are you, exactly? Why do you keep finding me?"

"I don't 'keep' doing anything, my dear," the old witch said in a maddeningly calm drawl. "I do what needs to be done, when I need to do it. Never you mind my name or my past. It's your future I'm concerned with, you understand?"

Hermione studied the old witch's face carefully, trying to look for a familiar feature that might reveal the woman's identity. She knew she had only seconds before Will came back with the broom, so she hissed, "What do you want from me?"

"Go home, child," the old witch said kindly, reaching up in her blindness and finding Hermione's shoulder. The old witch patted Hermione gently and droned, "Without you, he will be that grey-faced man who sent you here. Without you, he will destroy too much. Go to him, child, and quell the tempest in his soul... just enough to staunch the flow of blood. Just enough to shine a light upon the days to come. He needs you very nearly as much as you need him. Go now."

Hermione stared for a brief moment at the old witch, stunned into open-mouthed silence. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she whispered, "Who sent you?"

"Nobody in particular," the old witch insisted, shaking her head and crinkling her eyes as she smiled warmly.

"Here's the broom, Hermione," Will's voice said merrily, and the sandy-haired young man dashed from behind the counter and began cleaning up the mess of the shattered vase. Hermione stammered an apology and offered to clean it up herself, but Will finished with the dustpan quickly and insisted they not tell his father about the broken item. Hermione nodded gratefully as Will took the shards off to the rubbish bin. She felt dizzy again as she remembered the old witch's presence in the shop. She turned round to address the old woman, but she was greeted with nothing but sunny stillness. Hermione frantically looked around for the old witch, but it was no use. The shop was empty, and the woman was gone. Hermione stood in silence for a moment, feeling her eyes burn a bit.

"I've got tea brewing," she heard Will say all of a sudden. "Care for a cuppa?"

"No, thank you," Hermione croaked, shaking her head. She licked her bottom lip and felt her heart thumping again as she smiled gently at Will and said, "I'm just going to step outside for a moment."

"Yeah, all right." Will nodded, and Hermione ignored his concerned expression as she strode numbly from the shop. She pulled herself into the darkened alley beside the shop and collapsed against a brick wall there, dissolving into silent, shuddering tears.

She thought through the old witch's words... Quell the tempest in his soul, just enough to staunch the flow of blood. Hermione felt a physical ache for Tom then, realising that no matter how badly she wanted to despise him, she couldn't. She didn't despise him. She loved him. She had tried for months to leave him forever, to go back to the nonexistent timeline in which she'd grown up. She had tried simply pretending he wasn't real, that her life with him did not exist or matter.

He needs you very nearly as much as you need him.

Hermione stood up away from the wall, clearing her throat roughly as she swiped at her tears. Then she steadied herself and pulled her wand out from the Expanded pocket of her skirt. She shut her eyes tightly and thought of Wiltshire, of Malfoy Manor. She whirled round and Disapparated, leaving Muggle London behind and not knowing what - or who - she would see when she opened her eyes again.

* * *

December 1969

"Georgie, is something wrong? You've hardly touched your food."

Georgiana stilled her hand, which had been dragging a spoon aimlessly through her potatoes. She raised her eyes to her mother and sighed across the dining room table.

"Bilius Weasley told me something rather upsetting before we left Hogwarts for the holidays, Mum," she said softly, and she watched as her mother - the Dark Lady Hermione - furrowed her brows.

"What's the matter, dear?" Hermione asked, and Georgiana pursed her lips, hesitating. Her mother chuckled a bit then, and asked incredulously, "Oh, darling… is he in love with you?"

"No!" Georgiana shook her head vehemently, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment as her mother laughed harder than ever. Georgie cleared her throat and said carefully, "Bilius' brother, Arthur, has asked Molly Prewett to marry him."

Hermione's face became quite serious then. She set down her own fork and folded her hands upon the table. "Yes," she nodded. "I had heard that."

Georgiana felt her mouth drop open in surprise. "And what does Father intend to… do about that?"  
"What does he 'intend to do'?" Hermione repeated, her eyebrows flying up in alarm. Georgiana nodded, but Hermione shook her head and said firmly, "He isn't going to 'do' anything at all, Georgiana. It would hardly be good public relations to go about banning marriages or worse, based solely on the Dark Lord's personal distaste for a family."

Georgiana frowned deeply. She was confused. All her life, her mother and father had told her how deeply they despised anyone with the surname Prewett. She'd heard whispers and rumours of a woman called 'Maggie,' someone who had wounded her parents in an unknown but clearly serious manner. Georgiana couldn't imagine how her father could simply sit back and allow a member of the Prewett family to wed into the allied Weasleys.

Hermione looked disturbed by Georgiana's confusion. She licked her bottom lip carefully and picked up her spoon again.

"What Arthur Weasley does with his personal life - whether with a Prewett or anyone else - is hardly worthy of your father's attention, Georgie. There are far more pressing concerns at the moment, I assure you. Now, when you go back to school, I want you to tell Bilius there's no problem at all between his family and ours. You two obviously… you're great friends, I know." She appeared to be measuring her words rather meticulously. She hesitated for a brief second and then said, "There's no reason at all that his brother's marriage should impede Bilius' relationship with you, Georgie. I do not want you burning bridges over your parents' politics, you understand?"

"Yes, Mum." Georgiana nodded with a little sigh and picked up a fork. She stabbed at a potato and popped it into her mouth.

Sometimes her parents were incredibly confusing. At times they seemed guided by nothing but ambition and the pursuit of personal glory. Other times, it seemed as though Georgiana herself were their one and only concern. It was all rather unpredictable, in a way that made it difficult for Georgiana to navigate her adolescence.

Still, if her mother said she could be friends with Bilius, then Georgiana damned well would be friends with him.

* * *

February 1946

"Dare Lefdi!"

Hermione stopped in her tracks and turned abruptly toward the sound of the portrait calling out for her. She had grown rather accustomed over the past month to hearing Armand Malfoy address her as 'Dare Lefdi' - an extraordinarily antiquated way of saying 'Dark Lady.'

The portrait of Armand Malfoy in the first-floor corridor of Malfoy Manor was really more of an icon. Its primitive medieval painting style did not give much detail of the Norman wizard, and time had flecked away a great deal of the portrait's paint. Still, Armand's portrait had proven himself to be an enthusiastic ally of Lord Voldemort, and had nearly daily provided the denizens of Malfoy Manor with news from Hogwarts. He preferred to speak with Hermione, since she seemed to be the only one patient enough to sort through his confusing mash-up of Norman French, Middle English, and more modern terms he'd learnt through the years. Perhaps, Hermione thought, the ancient painting's confusing mannerisms and speech were one reason he'd been rather neglected over the past few centuries - and a reason why Armand's portrait had so willingly leapt to the task of spying.

"Good day, sir," Hermione inclined her head delicately as she approached the portrait. Her heavy winter robes dragged quietly on the emerald carpets as she pulled herself up just in front of Armand.

"J'ai knowleche newe, Dare Lefdi!" Armand's portrait seemed particularly eager this morning to share his information with Hermione. She had been on her way to eat luncheon with Tom, but her ears pricked up a bit at the portrait's bouncy energy.

"What have you heard, sir?" Hermione pressed, feeling her heart begin to thump as Armand's portrait spoke. She had to concentrate carefully on each of his words, to parse out the meaning properly. As the portrait spoke, Hermione felt her eyes growing wide.

"Of hem that lede Hogwarts - Herre Armando Dippet - and of hem arwe feend, Albus Dumbledore. Argumenten ba Herre, a-bouten thy housbound. Mellyng bi-twix hem, in Donjoun ofe Hogwarts. For-leten Dippet, mais achaped Dumbledore from Hogwarts. Ifoth Dumbledore the Swerde ofe Gryffindor. Seyne peintures that hem wolde go to Mould-on-the-Wold, wher hem hafe hous."

Hermione struggled to catch her breath as she tried to make sense of all that Armand had said. There had been a fight (a duel?) between Armando Dippet and Albus Dumbledore in the highest tower of Hogwarts. The fight had been about Hermione's husband - about Tom. While Dumbledore had won the fight, he had fled the school with the Sword of Gryffindor, and was rumoured by the other portraits to have gone to his hometown, Mould-on-the-Wold.

This was all shocking information, of course, and Hermione wished desperately that Armand's portrait could communicate more clearly in Modern English. Suddenly struck with an idea, she pulled out her wand and aimed it at the portrait of Armand Malfoy.

"Mutuo intelligibilia," she said firmly, wondering why it had never yet occurred to her to cast the Pentecost Charm upon the portrait. Instantly, the two were able to understand one another, each hearing the language or dialect they understood. Armand's portrait looked a bit relieved as Hermione quickly asked,

"When did this happen, sir? The duel between Dumbledore and Dippet? When did he leave? How did he take the Sword of Gryffindor?"

"I know not how it is that he obtained the sword, My Lady," Armand Malfoy's portrait said with a twinge of regret. He shifted a bit in his frame and admitted, "I saw none of it. I only heard whispering between the portraits of Elizabeth Burke and Everard - the latter's second portrait is in the Headmaster's office, and he saw a good deal of the drama, from what I understand."

Hermione nodded and chewed upon her lip. "Thank you, Armand," she managed to choke out. "I shall tell the Dark Lord immediately."

She gave an awkward little curtsy to the ancient portrait, dashing off down the corridor toward the dining-room. She flung open the doors to see that the dining table was already full of people. Betty Cattermole and Abraxas Malfoy, recently engaged to be married, were seated beside one another. Across from them were Neptunus and Nereus Malfoy, Abraxas' uncle and father. At the head of the table sat Tom, looking rather bored at the moment Hermione burst into the room. As she stepped into the dining-room, everyone at the table stood, including Tom, who adjusted his suit jacket and frowned.

"Is something the matter, My Lady?" he asked, his voice cautious. Hermione reached up and touched her fingertips to the locket of Salazar Slytherin about her neck, gesturing for the Malfoys and Betty Cattermole to sit. They did, and Hermione let Tom pull out a chair for her as she began to relay the information from the portrait of Armand Malfoy.

"They think he's gone to the town where he was born," Hermione said, after telling the group what she had heard. "To Mould-on-the-Wold."

"Neptunus, who do we have there?" Tom asked sharply, still standing beside Hermione's chair. Mould-on-the-Wold was a wizarding village, so Hermione thought it would make perfect sense that Tom would have spies and insiders already placed there. Neptunus Malfoy stroked at his small blond beard and appeared to think hard for a moment.

"I believe that Milton Mulciber and his parents are there currently, My Lord. I can send an owl at once with this information, asking Mulciber to activate local sources and watch for Dumbledore."

"I hardly think this sort of knowledge is the type of thing that ought be tied to a bird's foot, Neptunus," Tom scolded harshly. Neptunus Malfoy's cheeks coloured with embarrassment, and he swallowed before nodding and saying,

"Of course you're right, My Lord. I shall instead send Mulciber an owl instructing him to Apparate here to Wiltshire. Shall you grant him an audience to discuss the matter?"

"Naturally. Go. I want him here by tomorrow." Tom waved his arm toward the door, dismissing Neptunus Malfoy off to the manor's owlery. Neptunus rose from his chair, murmured a polite few words as he excused himself, and turned to bow to Tom. After Neptunus had scuttled from the room, Tom took his seat again and said,

"Now. I believe we were about to enjoy a good luncheon, hm?"

* * *

July 1949

Lord Voldemort stared out the window of his office, feeling rage boil up inside of him. He'd just sent Druella Black away from Malfoy Manor, having invited the young witch for a meeting with the notion that he would bed her. In reality, Voldemort had no interest in the heavy-lidded Druella. His only interest was conquering that which belonged to someone else, and Druella was the wife of Cygnus Black. Druella had seemed delighted by the prospect of intimacy with the Dark Lord - too delighted. Halfway through stripping off her clothes, Voldemort had grown nauseated and thought the better of it all. He didn't want the witch, and, anyway, it would do him no good to irritate a loyal follower and his influential family through such a betrayal.

And then there was Hermione. All the while that Voldemort had been peeling off bits of Druella Black's clothing, his mind had been filled with thoughts of his beautiful young wife. It had been seven months since he'd seen her, and after months of searching and attempting to contact her with their Protean-linked objects, Voldemort had given up hope that Hermione would ever come back. He wondered often whether she'd somehow found a way to return back to her own time, or whether something more sinister had happened to her. He'd shut his eyes as Druella Black reached to unclasp her own brassiere, and he'd pushed her away as the black-haired witch had attempted to kiss him.

"Leave," he had said firmly, his eyes still shut. There had been a terrible, awkward silence, and then Druella's scratching voice had asked,

"I beg your pardon, My Lord?"

"I want you to go back to Cygnus and make love to him, Madam Black," Voldemort had insisted, cracking his eyes to see Druella's horrified expression.

"But I thought you wanted…" Druella's voice had trailed off then as she reached to the ground for her dress. Voldemort had shaken his head and snapped,

"I have changed my mind. Go home, Druella. Now, if you please."

He'd turned away and stepped over to his window, and there had been a soft rustling behind him as Druella Black had fastened herself up and moved to slip from the room. Voldemort was certain he heard tears in her voice as she'd whispered,

"Good afternoon, My Lord."

Then there was quiet and stillness in his office, and he'd been standing at his window for nearly an hour, staring blankly at the gardens below. He was angry - with Hermione, for leaving him, and with himself for giving way to his own base instincts and sense of retribution. His hands wrung one another behind his back, and he tipped his forehead to the glass. As he sighed, a patch of fog appeared upon the window. Voldemort stood up and swiped at the fog with the sleeve of his neatly-tailored robes.

Then he froze, for there had been movement in the farthest corner of the garden.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the place where a figure had just appeared out of thin air. The figure, clad in a simple red cotton dress, began moving briskly toward the manor. There was a stony, crackling moment during which Voldemort felt utterly unable to move, as he registered that it was her. Hermione herself had just appeared in the garden. Then, tearing his feet from the floorboards, Voldemort dashed like a child through the corridors and down the marble stairs.

His heart rammed in his chest as he ran. He reached into his robes and pulled out his wand, for a tiny bit of his mind questioned why she had just appeared after seven months of absence. Voldemort hurled open the front door of the manor and began sprinting through the gardens, through neat rows of rose bushes and through vine-swirled pathways. He found he suddenly did not care whether anyone saw him running like a fool. Let them see, he thought bitterly. Then he spotted her, walking with a purpose toward the enormous house.

"Hermione?" he called, wondering absently whether she were a ghost or an illusion. He kept running toward her, and he watched as she stopped where she stood and reached for her own wand. "Expelliarmus!" Voldemort cried out impulsively. Hermione's wand spiraled through the air and Voldemort reached out to snatch it. He could not help but wonder whether she were someone else, someone who'd disguised themselves as Hermione in order to reach him.

As he approached her, he saw the look of irritation flash over her caramel eyes at having been Disarmed. But she seemed unsurprised when Voldemort cautiously asked her,

"Where did I first take you?"

She sighed a bit in response to his question, but she nodded and verified her identity by answering, "On a bookshelf in the library. Then you left, rather unceremoniously."

"A familiar trope in our story, it seems," Voldemort said in a caustic voice. He caught his breath for a moment, taking in the sight of her. She wore a Muggle dress, and an ugly one at that. Her hair was rather sloppily put into loose curls, and her shoes looked battered and worn. She had never been more maddeningly beautiful. Voldemort gulped and demanded, "Where have you been?"

"In London," Hermione answered simply. She crossed her arms over her chest and shrugged with a self-conscious sigh, and she said, "I've been working in a Muggle furniture store. Spending my nights on the streets, then in a tiny rented room. For months, I tried to go home - to the time and place I knew once as my home. It didn't work; I don't suppose it would have worked no matter how long I'd tried. So I gave up on going back to my own time."

"But you did not return to me," Voldemort said sharply. It was not a question. He watched with a surge of anger as Hermione's honey-coloured eyes glittered with unshed tears. She shrugged and said tightly,

"No. I did not come back here, because I was terribly afraid. Of you, of the Prophecy we heard last winter, of the notion that I had accepted and become utterly complicit in your wickedness."

Voldemort did not answer that. He stood in silence, feeling his own eyes burn as he struggled to make sense of Hermione's sudden reappearance. On impulse, he thrust her wand out toward her and snarled,

"So you've come to assassinate me, then? Go on. Do it."

He held his hands out to his sides and tipped his face up into the sunlight, shutting his eyes. He knew, of course, that Hermione Granger did not possess the capacity to murder. But he stood there in the hot sun just the same, open and willing to die at her hands.

"Tom," Hermione said softly, and Voldemort lowered his face and glared at her. Hermione swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and whispered, "I was afraid to come back. I never stopped loving you. I never touched anyone else; I dreamed of being in your arms. But I was afraid."

Voldemort felt a pang of guilt roil through him then, a sickening and unfamiliar sensation that coiled in his abdomen and tightened like a spring as he realised her words. I never touched anyone else. He could not make that same declaration to her.

"Why are you here, then?" he asked her coldly, lowering his eyes to the grass. "Am I meant to simply accept you back into my fold? Have you any notion of the greatness I have accomplished in your absence?"

His words were meant to wound her, to imply that her presence was not necessary for him to be successful. And it was true, in a way; Voldemort had over the past year tripled his number of loyal followers and received a constant stream of valuable subversive information from his many spies. His wealth had multiplied many times over, and the Malfoy family had deeded their ancestral manor to him. In a sense, Hermione's departure had triggered a great swell of determination inside of Voldemort. He had reappropriated his anger and betrayal, and he had converted that into a manic, single-minded sense of ambition.

"I have no doubt that you can and did accomplish Dark miracles all on your own, Tom," Hermione answered him. Voldemort heard the little bite in her voice, and he raised his eyes to look at her. Her fingers moved anxiously on the handle of her wand, and she shrugged again as she mumbled, "I came back because a very mysterious old witch instructed me to do so."

Tom narrowed his eyes and contemplated peeking into Hermione's mind to see the 'mysterious old witch' for himself. But then he remembered that Hermione was an accomplished Occlumens (thanks to his tuition) and would likely keep him out of her head.

"Who was this woman?" he demanded instead, and Hermione shook her head.

"I honestly have no idea," she admitted. "It was not the first time I saw her, and I suspect it shall not be the last. I'm meant to be here, with you. I believe that to be so. Accept me 'back into your fold' if you will, or else punish me for my abandonment of our marriage. I am under no delusion that you have spent the past seven months in devoted fidelity to our union. I wish to reestablish our marriage for what it once was - a permanent promise to one another. I should not have left. That was wrong of me. Please, Tom… forgive me and I shall do the same for you."

Voldemort curled his lip up into a sneer for a moment, feeling enraged that she suggest he needed to be forgiven. But then he remembered the disgust he'd felt with Druella Black just an hour previously, and he thought he might be sick upon the grass. Before he could stop himself from moving, Voldemort had closed the distance between himself and Hermione.

He took her face in his hands, so roughly that he worried vaguely he might be hurting her. His black eyes flicked to her throat, where he saw Salazar Slytherin's battered locket dangling. Overcome with competing emotions that could not be calibrated, Voldemort crashed his mouth onto Hermione's. She tasted like summer, like vanilla and honey. She smelled like lilacs and rain and damp wood. Suddenly, as he kissed her, Voldemort realised precisely why he had sensed Hermione in the Amortentia potion all those years previously.

It had been for occasions just such as this - moments where he might doubt the purpose of their union, of his need of her. It was for moments where he might have suspected he'd fallen out of love with Hermione. Moments like this one, where he crushed her body against his and absorbed her very essence, were the reason he would not self-destruct as he'd done in 'her' time. He did need her; he needed her to tame the violent beast within him, to temper his ruthlessness, to rule beside him and be his truest ally. Voldemort needed Hermione more than he'd realised. Almost as much, he thought, as she needed him.


	3. Chapter 3

June 1970

"Thanks for agreeing to come with me, Georgie. It… erm… it means a lot."

Bilius' pale, freckled cheeks splattered scarlet as he cleared his throat nervously. Georgiana smirked a bit, lacing her arm in Bilius'. He was her oldest, dearest friend, and she'd be damned if she was going to let him go alone to his own brother's wedding.

"Once I was made to understand there would be unlimited food and beverage, it was an obvious decision," Georgiana joked. She patted Bilius' arm and watched him roll his eyes. Then, laughing a bit, Georgiana said, "I'll even dance with you once or twice. Promise."

They took their seats among the long rows of folding white chairs. Georgiana pricked her ears up to the buzz of conversation among the other guests awaiting Arthur Weasley's wedding ceremony.

"The Lady Georgiana… didn't think the Dark Lord would… she's a Prewett, and from what I understand…"

Georgiana only caught bits and pieces of the whispers around her. She felt an angry heat in her cheeks as the wedding guests gossiped. Could Georgiana truly do nothing without her parents' politics becoming attached? All she wanted today - all she ever wanted, really - was to live her life without being thought of as the Daughter of the Dark Lord.

"Ten Galleons says your brother flubs his vows," Georgiana whispered snidely to Bilius, and the two shared a laugh before Bilius replies,

"I'd bet you, except that I agree with you, and I'd lose the bet. Three Galleons - oh, come on, Georgie, I haven't got ten… Three Galleons says that Molly Prewett trips in her dress walking down the aisle!"

Georgiana swatted at Bilius' shoulder and giggled. "You should never wish such a terrible thing upon a bride!" she scolded him, trying to look cross. It didn't work, and she dissolved into laughter again as Bilius shrugged.

The ceremony was brief but beautiful. Red-haired Molly Prewett married red-haired Arthur Weasley as the onlookers swiped away tears of happiness.

"Fifty Galleons says every single one of their offspring is ginger," Bilius hissed, leaning over to Georgiana's ear near the end of the ceremony. She stifled a guffaw and whispered back,

"You haven't got ten Galleons, but you're willing to bet fifty that their children are all red-haired?"

"I'm relatively confident in my wager," Bilius replied. Gideon Prewett scowled at the two of them from where he sat a few rows ahead. Georgiana suppressed her smile and mouthed a silent apology to Molly Prewett's brother.

Later, after much celebration and dining, Georgiana sat at a table and drummed her fingers. She glanced around the reception tent, rather impressed with the enchantment that had turned its otherwise plain interior into a night sky glittering with stars. The dance floor glowed gently as the small band began playing old-fashioned tunes, and one by one couples began to trickle out together.

"Are you going to dance with Bilius Weasley, My Lady?"

Georgiana looked across her table to where Bellatrix Black practically hung off of the shoulder of Rodolphus Lestrange. Georgiana tried not to outwardly frown at the sight of Bellatrix - already clearly a bit drunk - as she petted Rodolphus' pale, spindly fingers.

"He's off talking with his brother just now," she explained, gesturing vaguely to the opposite side of the tent. Bellatrix nodded and said,

"I thought Molly Prewett's dress was just hideous, didn't you? It was obviously homemade… Not at all in fashion." Bellatrix twisted her face a bit, and Georgiana gritted her teeth.

"I thought it was just fine," she said quietly, sipping her wine and feeling a bit queasy. Something about Bellatrix Black put Georgiana deeply at ease. She set down her wine glass and rose from her chair, watching as Bellatrix and Rodolphus rose with her. Georgiana tried not to roll her eyes at the pair of sycophants. Again, she felt rather irritated that she was being shown deference only on account of her parents' identities. Georgiana nodded brusquely and said,

"You know, I think I shall go see whether Bilius wants to dance."

She turned on her heel and was strode across the half-full dance floor in a beeline toward where Bilius stood talking with the newlyweds. Plain-faced Molly Prewett - Molly Weasley, now - smiled a bit as Georgiana approached. Mercifully, neither she nor her new husband gave any sort of obeisance to Georgiana.

"Congratulations, Arthur. Molly." Georgiana nodded to each of them, and watched as Molly took Arthur's hand.

"Thank you for coming, My Lady," Arthur replied. Georgiana nodded and forced a little grimace of a smile. She turned to Bilius and asked rather sharply,

"Will you dance with me, please?"

Bilius looked a bit taken aback by the abruptness of Georgiana's request. Georgiana flicked her eyes from Bilius to Arthur, who appeared to be stifling a small laugh, and then to Molly, whose orange eyebrows had flown up in surprise. Bilius cleared his throat and extended his arm.

"Of course, My Lady," he said quickly. Georgiana walked with him out to the dance floor and they attempted to glide into the waltz playing. Georgiana felt a little quiver of nervousness as she danced with Bilius, knowing full well that the entire tent full of people was watching them intently. She sniffed lightly and squeezed at Bilius' shoulder.

"I like your dress," Bilius said, his tone casual. Georgiana glanced down at herself and smiled. She was wearing a flowing, lightweight gown made of silk the colour of raspberries. She shrugged and admitted,

"I made it myself. Though, if you asked Bella, making things yourself is apparently a crime against fashion."

Bilius looked confused for a moment, faltering a bit in his dancing steps. "Don't pay Bellatrix Black any attention," he insisted, shaking his head. "She's a foul creature. Always has been. Always will be."

"Hmm." Georgiana looked over to where Bellatrix sat. She was fully on Rodolphus Lestrange's lap now, placing cherries into the wizard's mouth with a sickening sneer of a grin upon her pointed face. Georgiana sighed and said, "I feel as though, most of the time, I'm entirely surrounded by foul creatures."

"You're dancing with one now," Bilius smiled, in an obvious attempt to lighten Georgiana's mood. She stuck her tongue out at him, and then rather impulsively placed her forehead against his shoulder.

"Of all the creatures here, you are the least foul, Bilius," she murmured sadly, and she felt his hand tighten around her waist.

"I'm very happy to be the 'least foul.' Quite an honour. Now, Georgie, stand up and look happy. Everybody's watching you."

Georgiana pulled her face from Bilius' shoulder and flashed him a false, plastered smile. "Don't I look happy?" she asked sarcastically. Bilius smirked.

"I'd much rather you actually were happy, Georgie."

"I am," she insisted, and as she stared at Bilius' bright eyes, she realised that wasn't entirely a lie. She smiled, more genuinely this time, and said again, "I am happy. Very happy."

* * *

August 1949

Hermione's return to Malfoy Manor had been characterised by a great many confused stares, awkward questions, and quite a bit of catching up. She learnt that Tom had spent the past seven months acquiring wizarding real estate and businesses - using, she suspected, intimidation tactics to wrest the properties from their owners' hands. The businesses, many of which were well-known and successful, had been allowed to remain "managed" by their previous owners, so long as the Dark Lord received a very large cut of profits and an oath of fealty. In cases where owners would not submit, they had been "eliminated" (Hermione wished for no details on those cases). New managers had been installed as rewards for loyal behaviour. The apothecary in Hogsmeade, apparently, had been seized, its owner "eliminated," and Avery had taken over the place.

In addition, Tom had spies and allies in nearly every Ministry department now. The ranks of his followers was still too small, though, to manage an actual overthrow of the Ministry. Instead, Tom had regular meetings with his spies, receiving damning information about enemies and sensitive Ministry intelligence.

Hermione found out that Albus Dumbledore had officially and permanently retired from Hogwarts, that he was instead in collusion with subversive Aurors on a mission to eliminate the "threat of Voldemort." From what Hermione understood, Albus Dumbledore had been spending the first few years of his retirement forming a coalition of witches and wizards opposed to Tom's ascent. It all sounded terribly familiar to Hermione, who still vividly remembered the faces of members of the Order of the Phoenix from her own time.

One day, as she sat in the library of Malfoy Manor, she shut her eyes and thought back to secretive meetings at Grimmauld Place. She could still hear the murmurs from the kitchen as Arthur and Molly Weasley, Remus Lupin, Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Albus Dumbledore himself discussed important matters. All of their meetings had related to Voldemort - the grey-faced, monstrous version of Voldemort from Hermione's time. Apparently, Albus Dumbledore still had his heart set on destroying Tom. Some things, Hermione realised, could not change even with the radical alteration of a timeline.

Hermione opened her eyes from her daydream, glancing out the library window at the pounding rain. Nearly the entire month since she'd come back, the weather had been positively atrocious. The gardens were mushy and flooded from excessive rain, and she could scarcely recall the last time she'd seen the sun. Hermione sighed and flicked her wand at the fireplace, loathe to light a fire in August but shivering in the dank space. The hearth burst into a warm glow, and Hermione watched the flames dance for a while. Then there was a gentle rapping upon the door, followed by a squeak and soft footsteps. Hermione turned round in her armchair to see Dobby the House-Elf come padding into the library.

She felt a knot in her throat then, for seeing Dobby only made her think harder about the life she'd left behind. Dobby had been liberated from his servitude to the Malfoy family by Harry Potter in 1993, and he'd been an integral part of Hermione's failed S.P.E.W. campaign in her fourth year. Hermione swallowed, trying to rid herself of the flood of memories, and croaked out,

"Hello, Dobby."

"Madam! Dobby hopes the terrible weather is not affecting Madam's mood! Madam appears much aggrieved today. May Dobby bring Madam some tea? Some biscuits? Anything to make Madam happy."

Dobby had been perhaps the happiest one in Malfoy Manor upon Hermione's return from London. She knew that Dobby preferred her over the other witches and wizards in the house, for she had a fondness for house-elves not shared by the other denizens of the Manor. She smiled weakly toward Dobby, knowing that her smile did not reach her eyes.

"I'm fine, Dobby. Thank you. Have you any idea where my husband is at the moment?"

Dobby's enormous eyes widened then, and he pinched his lips. He shook his head, his ears flopping back and forth a bit, and said, "Dobby hasn't got any idea where the Dark Lord is, Madam! But Dobby can find him! Anything to make Madam happy!"

Hermione chewed upon her bottom lip, trying not to cry as she asked, "Dobby, do you suppose you could find him and ask him to come here? I should like to speak with him."

Dobby looked as though he were second-guessing his offer to find Voldemort. He looked rather terrified for a moment, but then seemed to remember how fond he was of Hermione. Finally, a resolved look came over the creature's face, and he nodded firmly. "Dobby shall find the Dark Lord, Madam! Dobby shall bring him to the library, and speaking with the Dark Lord shall make Madam happy. Dobby wants Madam to be happy."

He snapped his fingers then, and with a sharp crack! was gone instantly from the room. Hermione felt ill for a moment as she looked back at the fire. Since she'd come back to Malfoy Manor, she'd seen very little of Tom. Most days, he was engaged in meetings and office work until late at night, when Hermione would rouse from sleep to feel him slipping into their bed. By the time she woke in the morning, he was usually gone.

The words of the old woman in London still stuck with Hermione. Quell the tempest in his soul, just enough to staunch the flow of blood… He needs you very nearly as much as you need him. Hermione still had no idea who the old woman had been. Most days, she supposed she did not want to know at all. But she had recently realised that she'd somewhat failed at following the old witch's command since she'd come home. She hadn't done much of anything to 'quell the tempest'inside of Tom. She'd left him alone, only deepening the gap between them. Her days had been idle and she had begun to feel rather worthless.

As Hermione contemplated all of this, the door creaked again as it opened. She turned round to see Tom in the threshold. He straightened his neatly-tailored suit coat as he walked silently into the library, taking a seat in the armchair opposite Hermione.

"A very insistent house-elf informed me that you wished to speak with me," he said simply. Hermione steeled herself and squared her jaw, wishing that she could find the boy she'd fallen in love with all those years ago. When she looked into Tom's eyes now, all she saw was a cold darkness. It was difficult to find her Tom in his eyes anymore. How long, she wondered vaguely, until those eyes turned red? Until he was no longer man, but solely monster?

She lowered her head and stared at her fingernails for a long moment. "Araminta Meliflua. Diana Greengrass. Winifred Bulstrode. Druella Black. Am I forgetting anyone?"

Hermione flicked up her gaze and watched as a strange look came over Tom's angular face. His hands tightened upon the arms of the chair. When he spoke, his tone was significantly warmer than it had been when he'd first come into the library.

"Mistakes, every one of them," he admitted, for Hermione had listed the women with whom she knew Tom had been intimate in Hermione's absence. Tom sucked on his teeth and sighed. "I have apologised just as profusely as possible, Hermione, for those women. I ought not have…"

His voice trailed off then, and he looked quite uncomfortable. Hermione raised her eyebrows expectantly, and she listened as Tom finished,

"I thought only of you."

"As you made love to them," Hermione snapped. This conversation was not going as she'd planned. Tom looked offended, frowning and muttering,

"I should hardly consider what happened with those women to be 'making love,' Hermione."

"What was it, then?" Hermione demanded, shaking her head. "Were you using them to advance yourself? To fill in the blank spot I left behind? What were they to you?"

"They were nothing," Tom said confidently. His eyes glittered as he insisted, "No one is anything to me, Hermione, except for you."

She shut her eyes and remembered all the times he'd told her that no one was safe from him… except for her. She was inclined to believe him, to forgive him. But she felt rather sorry for all those young witches who had bedded Lord Voldemort in hopes of advancing themselves or their families. They'd been just as big of fools as he had been… and as Hermione had been.

"Is there anything else you wished to discuss, My Lady?" Tom asked. Hermione heard the bite in his tone, and she opened her eyes to see him drumming his fingertips upon the arms of the chair.

"I think you ought to have Betty Cattermole interview you again," she said, and Tom looked confused. Hermione cleared her throat and clarified, "The entire wizarding world knows that I vanished for months, and they shall all gossip and assume unless you give them a story to believe."

"I scarcely think that my appearing in Witch Weekly again will be beneficial to our marriage, Hermione," Tom said, narrowing his eyes as though Hermione had suddenly lost her mind. She sighed and said,

"I'm only trying to help you, Tom. I don't want them making up stories that paint you as a fool, or a cuckold, or, worse yet, someone who gets deserted. Tell them I was off on some sort of clandestine mission for you. Tell them you were in close contact with me all the while, and that you and I are very happy now that I'm back home."

"Are we happy?" Tom asked coldly, and Hermione felt a sting in her eyes. She lowered her face again and whispered,

"Very happy."

There was a soft rustling then, as Tom rose from his chair and moved to stand in front of Hermione. She stared at his shoes for a moment, then felt him tip up her chin. There was black steel in his gaze as he drawled,

"You're not happy. But I want you to be happy."

"You sound just like Dobby," Hermione said, flashing Tom a sad smile. He did not react to that, choosing instead to seize Hermione's hands and take a step back. She stood, only inches away from him. He smelled like warm cinnamon, like rosewood and clean soap and hard iron. He smelled like Tom, like the boy from school who'd Conjured her lilacs and kissed her on the Viaduct and married her in secret. She stared into his glimmering dark eyes and tried to find that boy. At last, his gaze faltered in its harsh chill, and she saw him. Hermione whimpered softly, wanting nothing more than to be rid of her confusion.

"I did not make love to any of those women," Tom whispered, reaching to pet Hermione's wild curls. "I was desolate without you. I was wrong to use them. To betray you. I was wrong. But I did not make love to them. I have only ever been - will only ever be - capable of loving you, Hermione Jean. And I do love you, profoundly and fiercely and rather painfully."

He kissed her, and she tasted caramel and mint on him. Her knees buckled a bit, and she staggered as he pushed her backward to the bookshelves. She nearly laughed aloud as she realised where they were… a library, just like the place he'd taken her maidenhead.

She hauled herself up onto the ledge below the bookshelf and kissed Tom harder than ever, feeling him sigh against her as his long fingers trailed up her thigh. She moaned quietly, willing him to touch her more firmly. But he made her be patient, dragging his fingertips against her knickers. Hermione felt a flush of damp heat there, felt him press his erection against her thigh. She moved her mouth from his, desperate for air. Tom seized upon that moment to lap and nibble at her neck, and Hermione shut her eyes as she became overwhelmed with arousal.

At some point, Tom's fingers pushed her knickers aside and delved into her wet entrance. He pulsed his thumb against Hermione's nub and ground himself against her thigh. He gasped onto the skin of her neck and reached with his other hand to brace himself against the bookshelf. Hermione wriggled and bucked her hips against his smoothly moving fingers, desperate for release. Her own hands worked helplessly at the buttons of his dress shirt, trying to rid him of his clothing. But Tom murmured into her ear,

"Leave it on. I'm touching you."

She shivered at his words, and a shock of want struck her straight through. Her fingers stilled at Tom's chest and she panted,

"You've spent the past seven months stealing businesses and homes from people. Having them killed. Possibly killing them yourself. I don't really want details. You're a vicious madman, Tom."

"That may well be so." Tom nodded into the crook of Hermione's shoulder and shoved himself against her leg as his hand quickened at her womanhood. Hermione cried out, rather loudly, and felt herself clench around his fingers as her ears rang and her pleasure exploded. As she caught her breath and came down from her high, Tom took his fingers from her and said, "Be vicious with me, will you?"

* * *

December 1949

Voldemort squared his jaw, remembering the common story he and Hermione had agreed upon. This entire interview was a compromise with Hermione. She had urged Voldemort to publicly present an explanation for Hermione's absence, but he'd resisted another appearance in Witch Weekly. Instead, he'd agreed to an interview with Arden Colporter from the Daily Prophet, ostensibly to commemorate the anniversary of Grindelwald's death. For some reason, when Arden Colporter had confronted him in the interview about Hermione's departure and absence, Voldemort had felt distinctly unwilling to discuss the matter. But he reminded himself that people had been talking, that rumours had indeed circulated about a broken marriage or a scandalous affair. After nearly an hour of discussing Grindelwald's death, Voldemort had decided to steer his conversation with Arden Colporter back to Hermione.

"What sort of mission?"

Arden Colporter frowned, lifting her quill from her parchment.

"A clandestine matter, the details of which I am not prepared to publicly discuss," Voldemort said carefully. "She was in Africa, and suffice it to say that she has acquired a great deal of valuable information, knowledge, and resources on behalf of our cause. For her safety, I did not discuss her absence, nor announce it. The Dark Lady is back in Britain now, and has been for several months. We are both very happy now that she is home."

"Happy?" Arden Colporter seemed rather amused at the prospect of Lord Voldemort demonstrating that emotion. Voldemort smirked at the reporter's disbelief, and he nodded.

"Very happy."

* * *

August 1949

"My Lady? Might I speak with you for a moment?"

Hermione whirled at the sound of Betty Malfoy's voice. She'd been traipsing through the gardens, for the weather was finally sunny and mild. She'd rather been enjoying her solitude, for the past month since she'd returned to Malfoy Manor had felt a bit stifling. She was rarely alone, completely alone, and so the quiet walk in the garden was a welcome respite. Hermione knew that Tom was upstairs, meeting with several high-profile spies and allies. He'd invited her to his meeting, but she'd declined and chosen to walk outside instead.

"What's wrong, Betty?" Hermione frowned at the sight of Betty Malfoy. The young woman's blonde hair was properly disheveled, and she did not appear as though she had put her usual amount of effort into dressing for the day. Hermione flicked her gaze from Betty's wrinkled dress up to her red-rimmed, watery eyes. "Has something happened?"

Betty Malfoy wrung her hands anxiously and chewed hard upon her lip. "It's just… oh, Hermione…"

Hermione felt her eyebrows fly up at the sound of her given name. No one ever called her 'Hermione' around here - only Tom. Betty had been calling her 'My Lady' for nearly five years. Hermione was even more shocked when Betty closed the distance between them and crashed against Hermione, wrapping her arms around the Dark Lady's torso.

"What's wrong, Betty?" Hermione demanded tightly, patting awkwardly at Betty's shoulder blade. Finally, Betty stood up straight, fresh tears cascading from her pale eyes.

"I know who you are." Betty Malfoy nodded and gave Hermione a look filled with pity. Hermione felt a cold shock go through her, and she stammered,

"W-what are you talking about?"

Betty swallowed heavily and looked conflicted. "Abraxas received an owl. From Albus Dumbledore. The letter said that your parents were never killed on the Continent during the Muggle War. That you never attended Beauxbatons. That your last name was 'Granger.' The letter said that you came back in time. That you're from the future. Is it true, Hermione?"

Hermione felt the warmth drain from her face. She felt as though she were going to be sick upon the grass. The gardens were spinning and her ears were ringing. At last, Hermione put a stony expression upon her face and squared her jaw.

"I'm quite certain I've never such lunacy in all my life," she insisted sharply, taking a small step away from Betty. "Albus Dumbledore is an old fool. He's gone mad; he will do anything - say anything - to vanquish my husband. Surely, Betty, you can not believe such nonsense?"

Betty lowered her eyes and shook her head. "Of course, I don't want to believe it. But Abraxas contacted Beauxbatons and asked for verification that you'd attended. He contacted the French Ministry of Magic and inquired about your parents…"

"If that's true, then Abraxas Malfoy is guilty of treason against his Lord." Hermione's voice was hard as iron then, as she fought to stand up straight. She was more queasy than ever as Betty's sad eyes met hers. Hermione hissed, "How dare you and your husband circumvent the Dark Lord's authority in order to attempt to prove Dumbledore's ridiculous conspiracy? You would call both the Dark Lord and myself liars…? Dumbledore is the liar, Betty. Even if I'd wanted to travel through time in such a way, you know full well that such an act is both illegal and impossible."

She was rambling now, and she knew it. But Hermione felt angry tears rush to her eyes. Betty knew her truth. Abraxas knew her truth. Who else knew?

"Who else has been fed this nonsense?" Hermione demanded, her voice crackling a bit with unbridled rage.

Betty sighed. "Abraxas has only shared the letter with me. I can not confirm whether anyone else has received a letter from Dumbledore, though Abraxas doesn't think anyone has." Betty shifted upon her feet and asked softly, "If it isn't true, Hermione… if you aren't a time traveller, then where did you come from? The parents you told us about - there's no documentation of such people. You said you attended Beauxbatons, but they have no record of you. In fact, there has never been a French witch or wizard with the registered surname of 'Villeneuve.' As for the name 'Granger,' there's never been a witch or wizard in Britain with such a name. Certainly no 'Hermione Granger.' So, if everything Dumbledore said is a lie, then what is true?"

Hermione instinctively reached into the pocket of her robe, closing her hand around the wand inside. It was a vine wand, made by Garrick Olivander in the early 1990s. She felt bile rising her throat as she nodded and said softly,

"If I tell you and Abraxas the truth, do you promise to stay loyal and true to the Dark Lord?"

Betty Malfoy swiped and her eyes and nodded vigorously. "Of course! You're my friend, Hermione. I've been your friend ever since the day you appeared at Hogwarts. There is no truth you could divulge that would change that fact. All I ask is to know who precisely has been deceiving me."

Hermione gritted her teeth and said, "Right. Let's go find Abraxas and Tom."

It was only as the two witches made their way up the stone stairs of the Manor that Hermione realised she'd called her husband "Tom" in front of Betty. The carefully manufactured personas she and Tom had crafted were crumbling about her, she thought bitterly. She led Betty down the corridor to the room where she knew Tom was meeting with several associates.

"We ought not disturb them!" Betty whispered frantically as she trotted behind Hermione, but Hermione shook her head and put her hand upon the doorknob of the meeting-room.

"This is far more important than anything else just now."

She opened the door and stepped into the meeting-room. At once, the wizards at the table flew to their feet, their swift motion accompanied by the sound of chair legs scraping on the wood floor.

"Good afternoon, My Lady." Avery bowed his head reverently, and Hermione glanced about the table to take inventory. Nott, Lestrange, all three male Malfoys, and Mulciber had come for the meeting. Hermione sniffed lightly and glanced to the head of the table, from which Tom was giving her a rather curious look.

"My Lord," she said sharply, ignoring Avery's greeting entirely, "I wonder if Madam Malfoy and I might speak with you and her husband Abraxas. Privately."

Tom's dark eyebrows arched. "I'm afraid our meeting is only halfway through, My Lady," he said, a meaningful expression coming over his dark eyes. Hermione impulsively put her hand to her throat and touched the key that dangled there, on the same chain as Slytherin's locket. She thrust her thoughts at Tom through the Protean Charm connection, knowing he had the bit of obsidian in his pocket.

End your silly meeting! she shouted mentally, watching as Tom flinched a bit where he stood. Betty and Abraxas know I've come through time. They know… Dumbledore told them…

Tom cleared his throat and shuffled some parchments on the table before him. He gave no outward indication that he had received Hermione's thoughts, but Hermione could hear the tightness in his voice as he said,

"On second thought… Gentlemen, I wonder if you would all be so kind as to return tomorrow. This meeting has dragged on long enough, and the remaining agenda items are hardly urgent."

"But, My Lord," protested Lestrange, his voice drawling through the meeting-room, "Mulciber and I need further instruction about -"

"I said to come back tomorrow." Tom's dark eyes flashed dangerously as he glared at Lestrange, who shrunk down a few inches and nodded meekly.

"Of course, My Lord."

There were murmured farewells then, and a bit of movement as everyone in attendance gathered their belongings and shuffled from the meeting-room. Only Abraxas Malfoy stayed behind, his hands tightly gripping the back of his chair as he pursed his lips. Tom stared intently at Abraxas as the room emptied. Once everyone had gone, he flicked his hand at the doorway without looking and mumbled a few spells to ward and lock the door. At last, he raised his eyes and looked from Hermione to Betty and back again. Hermione shook her head a bit at him, and watched as he sucked on his teeth. Then he strode to stand opposite Abraxas, and he barked,

"Malfoy." Abraxas looked up. The instant he did, Tom sneered, "Legilimens."

Betty gasped beside Hermione, who felt her heart hammering in her chest. It appeared as though Abraxas freely admitted Tom to his brain. He swayed a bit where he stood and moaned softly as though in pain, but there were no other signs of distress or resistance. After what felt like an eternity, Abraxas took an abrupt step backward, and Tom snarled,

"I ought to have you killed, Malfoy - no, I ought to kill you myself… for subverting my authority and seeking sensitive information about my wife from government and school records."

"Perhaps that's so, My Lord," Abraxas Malfoy mumbled, his hands tightening on the back of the chair until his knuckles went white. "I assure you that Betty and I sought only the truth, for the information fed to us by Albus Dumbledore was… shocking."

"I propose, My Lord, that we appoint Abraxas and Betty Secret-Keepers… and that we reveal the full story to them."

Tom looked scandalised for a moment. He reached into his pocket, and Hermione's head suddenly throbbed as he projected his thoughts at her.

The Fidelius Charm? You want to tell these two where you're really from, use the Fidelius Charm and appoint them Secret-Keepers? That's madness, Hermione. They've already gone behind my back once. It would be quicker, easier, and more effective to simply eliminate them.

Hermione struggled not to show emotion as she touched her key carefully. Murder Abraxas Malfoy and his wife, Tom, and you'll soon enough have more enemies than friends. Powerful enemies. You owe the Malfoy family a great deal. I believe it would be highly unwise to 'eliminate' any of them just now.

She watched as Tom appeared to contemplate the idea. Betty and Abraxas were staring at one another, fear and confusion in their eyes. Hermione said nothing, wanting Tom to appear as though he were entirely in control.

"Very well," Tom said at last. "The Fidelius Charm will allow you two to receive the whole and unadulterated truth about Hermione's life… but no one shall be able to extract the information from you against your will. Our secret will be safe in your souls, unless you openly betray us and surrender the information directly. If that happens, there will be no mercy. Do I make myself fully understood?"

"Of course, My Lord." Abraxas Malfoy nodded vigorously, and Betty squeaked out her own assent. Tom gestured toward the long table, and Betty shook as she sat in a chair beside Abraxas. Tom sat again at the head of the table, but Hermione stayed standing. She wrung her fingers together and paced around the perimeter of the table as she began to speak. When she did, words and truth tumbled forth, perhaps more freely than Hermione had intended for them to do.

"My name is - was - Hermione Jean Granger. I was born on the nineteenth of September, 1979. I am Muggle-born; my parents were dentists in a London suburb. Growing up, I always had unusual abilities. Things I could do that I suspected were abnormal. One day, a kind old woman came to my parents' house and told me about a place called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I had Magic inside me, she said. And, that autumn, in the year 1991, I began school at Hogwarts. I was sorted into Gryffindor. My best friends were a boy called Ronald Weasley - yes, those Weasleys - and a boy called Harry Potter."

Hermione paused, moving away from the table to stare rather blankly into the back of the empty fireplace. She examined the charred stains on the stones there for a long moment. Then she sighed, unable to see the faces of her audience, and continued,

"Harry Potter was famous for defeating a wizard called Lord Voldemort. When I say 'defeated,' I should perhaps specify that Harry's parents were murdered by Voldemort, and that Harry survived the Killing Curse. The curse rebounded and destroyed Voldemort for a great many years. Then, in my fourth year, Voldemort came back. He was resurrected into a macabre shadow of the man he had once been, but everyone was still terrified of him. And he was still very, very powerful. In the spring of my sixth year, I argued with Ron and Harry and retreated into a deserted classroom to study. One of our professors - a known follower of Voldemort - burst into the room and Vanished my belongings. He immobilised me, levitated me, and took me to a place I'd never been before. A place called Malfoy Manor."

Hermione turned round slowly and took in the expressions upon the three seated at the table. Betty Malfoy's bright eyes were wide and round as dinner plates, and her cheeks had drained white with anxiety and disbelief. Abraxas Malfoy's blond eyebrows were furrowed in confusion and apparent distrust. Tom Riddle - Voldemort - clasped his hands calmly together upon the table and showed no reaction whatsoever to what Hermione was saying. She cleared her throat and finished her tale.

"I was taken to Malfoy Manor and was introduced to Lord Voldemort, whom I had never met before. He was an old man, a wretched creature, but still terribly fearsome. And he kissed me - he kissed me - and said he had missed me and that he'd known me before. In his past. In my future. It made no sense at all, but before I could contemplate any of it, he handed me something… a rolled-up parchment that functioned rather like a Portkey. I was pinching and whirling, and when I landed, I was outside of Hogwarts, just as I'd been before being kidnapped. Only… I hadn't moved an hour forward in time. I had moved more than fifty years backward."

Hermione felt her eyes burn, and she decided not to fight the tears that came forth. She let them fall freely down her cheeks, staring at Betty and Abraxas for a long moment and absorbing their perplexed and appalled expressions. Then Hermione shook her head and insisted softly,

"I had no intention of falling in love with the boy called Tom Riddle. I knew what he would become. But I fell in love with him, just the same, and he fell in love with me. And… well, you know the rest."

Tom surprised Hermione then by calmly rising from his chair and striding over to her. He straightened his suit jacket and dragged his fingers through his raven hair. Hermione breathed in his comforting scent, glad she had left the bits about the Amortentia Potion out of her story. That information was only for herself and Tom. Not even Dumbledore knew about that. Tom held out his hand to Hermione and nodded reassuringly when she took it. Then Tom turned and spoke to Betty and Abraxas.

"I have observed a great many facts about time since my wife's arrival in this existence," he said carefully. "I believe time is not so linear as we have been made to accept. I believe there are no inevitabilities, no fate, no destiny. Only choices. And I believe that a deeply flawed version of myself sent a young woman called Hermione back in time, so that I could make the proper choices the second time round. So that I could be the greatest Dark wizard of all time, without anyone able to say otherwise. I am grateful for both of your alliance. I am angry that Albus Dumbledore saw fit to attempt to turn you both against me. But I am glad, I think, that you know this truth. For the both of you have shown yourselves to be able and loyal friends, worthy of sensitive information. Rise, if you please."

There was a terrible moment of stillness and silence during which neither Betty nor Abraxas did or said anything. They both stared at one another, then back up at Tom, who cleared his throat roughly to urge them into motion. At last, as if shaken from a trance, both Betty and Abraxas rose from their chairs on shaking legs and moved to stand near Hermione and Tom. Tom released Hermione's hand and pulled his knobbly wand - the one that had once belonged to Gellert Grindelwald - from his pocket. He murmured a few incantations and flourished his wand in the air around Betty and Abraxas. A dense scarlet fog developed, surrounding the Malfoys in a hazy ruby swirl. Betty looked properly terrified, but Abraxas kept his pale eyes on Tom as the Dark Lord asked,

"Abraxas and Elisabet Malfoy, do you promise to maintain the secret knowledge which has here been entrusted to you, on pain of torture and death?"

Betty flashed her eyes to Abraxas, and then a resigned and steely expression came over her pale face. She nodded, and said at the same time as Abraxas, "We do."

The red fog was tightening and condensing, and Hermione watched with wonder as it turned into a smoky rope that began winding tightly around the forms of Hermione, Betty, Abraxas, and Tom.

"Shall you ever divulge, either with your will or against it, the story of the Dark Lady's time travel?"

"No, My Lord. We never shall." Betty shook her head frantically. Tom arched an eyebrow at Abraxas, who echoed numbly,

"Never, My Lord."

Tom nodded crisply and stared at the scarlet smoke rope as he gripped his wand harder and whispered, "Tueri secreti fidelius… Mors sequiter proditione."

There was a warm vibration in Hermione's veins after Tom intoned the charm. She watched, aghast, as the ever-tightening red rope of smoke snapped in a few places and seemed to dissolve straight into the skin of those present. There was more warmth, more buzzing, and a great deal of dizziness for a long moment, and then the room felt unnaturally quiet and still.

Betty and Abraxas stared at one another, then at the floor, both apparently unsure of what to say. Tom cleared his throat beside Hermione, and then he said with lethal calm in his voice,

"Protect the truth faithfully."

* * *

February 1977

Georgiana tossed her head back a bit, unable to control her mirth as she danced with Bilius Weasley. The wedding between Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black had been almost intolerably dull, but Georgiana had been laughing so much with Bilius that she almost didn't mind attending. Almost.

"Hmph… there's Bellatrix and Rodolphus," Bilius sneered with an exaggerated sense of loathing. He jerked his head to the edge of the dance floor, where the bride's sister and her husband had slid into an awkward, lurching sort of rhythm. Georgiana stifled a rude guffaw and forced her eyes back to Bilius'. They were the colour of amber, she noticed, and rather complemented his orange hair. Why had she never noticed what a fine colour his eyes were?

"I suppose we ought not be the least bit surprised that Bellatrix is not a dancing woman," she said with a smirk, and Bilius shook his head dramatically.

"No, no. Bella's not a dancer. She's a vicious beast, and when's the last time you saw a vicious beast dance? Of its own accord, I mean… not some monkey in a circus who's been forced to do it."

"It does look rather forced," Georgiana nodded solemnly, flicking her eyes back to Bellatrix and Rodolphus. Their syrupy romance seemed, in the past few years, to have settled into a hideous sort of symbiosis. They looked very much alike, the two of them, both with black ringlets and heavy eyes and constant scowls punctuated by maniacal grins. Georgiana turned back to Bilius and shook her head firmly. She tightened her hand on his shoulder and demanded,

"Make me think of something else. It's uncouth for the daughter of the Dark Lord to stare at other wedding guests and laugh at their inability to dance."

"Well, what isn't uncouth for the daughter of the Dark Lord?" Bilius narrowed his eyes as though he were seriously considering an answer to his own question. At last, he said, "I don't think it's proper for the daughter of the Dark Lord to dance with an unmarried man. Least of all because she's had so very many suitors and has rejected all of them. No, dancing with a poor and unconnected Ministry worker is not at all proper for you, Lady Georgiana. I suggest you go sit down."

"'Unconnected'?" Georgiana scoffed, painting her face with an offended expression. "You're connected to me in more ways than one, Mr Weasley. I should think you to be very well-connected indeed."

More soft laughter erupted between them, but then the grin faded from Bilius Weasley's face, and his steps slowed. He pulled abruptly back from Georgiana and bowed. Georgiana whirled around to see her father behind her. He flashed her a small, knowing smile and said to Bilius,

"Mr Weasley, I wonder if you might spare my daughter for a brief dance. I haven't got any notion how many dances I've left with her before she fully abandons me."

Bilius smirked at Georgiana, then tipped his head reverently to Voldemort. "Of course, My Lord. I shall just go see about the cake…"

He excused himself and backed away. Georgiana sighed gently as she took her father's hand and rested her wrist upon his shoulder.

"You look very handsome, Father," she told him with a small wink. It was true; Lord Voldemort had come dressed to the nines to the Malfoy wedding. But, then, he had to look presentable, since everyone in attendance was more concerned with ingratiating themselves to the Dark Lord than with the actual wedding. Voldemort gave Georgiana another little smile and mumbled,

"Credit your mother. She chose the dress robes for me."

"Mum's always had quite a sense of style," Georgiana acknowledged, swaying to the waltz as her father skillfully guided her. Voldemort laughed a bit under his breath and shook his head.

"Credit that to Betty Malfoy. She was a writer, you know, for Witch Weekly, once upon a time. Your mother learnt everything she knows about feminine adornments from Betty Malfoy."

Georgiana's eyebrows flew up and she glanced over to the cluster of witches in the corner of the ballroom. Her mother was elegant as ever, resplendent in deep brocade dress robes. She was standing with Betty Malfoy, the mother of the groom, and Druella Black, the mother of the bride. The three women seemed deeply engaged in jovial conversation.

"Mr Weasley seems quite fond of you," Voldemort said suddenly, wrenching Georgiana from her reverie. She snapped her eyes back to his and tried not to scowl.

"He's only a friend, Father," she insisted somewhat petulantly. Voldemort nodded calmly, moving his feet in larger steps as the pace of the waltz picked up. Then he said,

"He doesn't have to be 'only a friend,' Georgie. You're a grown woman. Marry who you please."

Georgiana chortled and shook her head wildly. When she looked back to her father, he seemed a bit confused. She sighed and explained, "I couldn't marry Bilius, Father. He's like a brother to me."

"'Like a brother.' Hm." Voldemort pursed his lips, a small wrinkle appearing between his slightly greying eyebrows. "That's something of a common excuse for situations like this, isn't it?"

Georgiana felt abruptly uncomfortable discussing her love life - or lack thereof - with her father. She huffed and said in a bit of a growl, "Please, Father. You've no idea how difficult it's been, my entire life, having your shadow hanging over me. I can't just -"

She stopped then, for an odd flash had come across her father's stony dark eyes. Was it… hurt? Had she hurt his feelings just now? Georgiana faltered in her dancing steps and shut her eyes, clarifying,

"I mean to say… I'm terribly grateful for all you've ever done for me. You and Mum, the both of you… but it's…"

She trailed off, not certain how to explain to her father that being the Daughter of the Dark Lord was akin to wearing a giant sign advertising the presence of infectious disease. Everyone in Georgiana's life had either been sugary and brown-nosed in an attempt to get nearer to the Dark Lord, or they'd been outwardly hostile. No one had ever seemed genuine. No one except…

"Bilius Weasley is my oldest and dearest friend," Georgiana said, nodding firmly, for that was the truth.

Voldemort sucked on the inside of his cheek and frowned. The waltz had ended and a slow two-step had begun. The Dark Lord altered the rhythm of his movements, and Georgiana struggled to keep up. At last, he spoke.

"All I want, Georgie, is for you to be happy. It's all I've ever wanted for you. I wish, sometimes, that you knew just how frightened your mother and I were for you. How badly you were wanted by the both of us. How fiercely we loved you despite every indication that we would lose you."

Georgiana was confused by her father's cryptic words. She furrowed her brow and shook her head, preparing to ask exactly what Voldemort meant. But then her father's throat bobbed heavily, and he said,

"It is time you knew the truth, Georgie. About a great many things. Tomorrow, I want you to meet your mother and me in her office at Hogwarts. In the Pensieve there, I've stored a few important memories that I wish for you to view. You… It is time you knew the truth," he said again, nodding as though he were convincing himself.

Georgiana stopped her dancing and pulled her hands away from her father. She tried not to show emotion outwardly, knowing they were being closely watched by the wedding guests. Instead, she nodded resolutely, wondering exactly what 'truth' it was that her parents wished for her to know.


	4. Chapter 4

_February 1977_

Georgiana wrenched her face from the Pensieve, swiping away angry tears and gasping for breath. She had just witnessed the most confusing swirl of memories imaginable, gleaned from the minds of her parents.

"You… you're…" Georgiana struggled to find the proper words as she shot an accusatory gaze across the Headmistress' Office at her mother. Finally, Georgiana raised her hands up and shook her head in disbelief. "You're _younger_ than me!"

"Plainly, you can see that I am not," her mother insisted. Georgiana flicked her eyes to her father - to the Dark Lord Voldemort - seeing the terrible image of his grey skin and red eyes from her mother's previous life.

"You've known all along!" Georgiana's betrayal was sharp in her cracking voice, and her father calmly sighed and took a step toward her. He extended his hand to Georgiana's shoulder, but she instinctively flinched away. A strange look crossed Voldemort's dark eyes then, and he murmured,

"It was not the right time to tell you until now. As you can see, Georgie, it's all quite… bewildering. It always has been. But you're a grown woman now, and you deserve to know -"

"What on Earth have I done to so gravely offend you two that I 'deserve' _this_?" Georgiana's eyes, black like her father's, stung with welling tears as she shook her head vehemently. Her mother sucked in breath and looked prepared to speak, but Georgiana interrupted. "You're not even born yet! And you're… you're from the _future_? You know what's going to happen?"

"It doesn't work that way, darling." Hermione shook her head, and Georgiana felt a flush of rage at her parents' preternaturally calm demeanours. She chewed on her lip as her mother drummed her fingers on a book cover and continued, "The life I lived, all those many years ago and in years yet to come… that life is gone now. Different choices have been made since then - choices which have made my previous reality an impossibility. There were people I knew in my childhood who were never born. There were places I went that no longer exist. No, Georgiana. I don't know what's going to happen. None of us do until we make our choices."

Georgiana felt her mouth drop open, felt the room spinning. She panned her eyes over the portraits of former Hogwarts headmasters, many of whom looked a bit baffled by the conversation. Georgiana let out a shaky breath and turned her eyes first to her father, then to her mother.

"You're liars. The both of you. You're liars."

"Georgiana Jean!" Hermione snapped, looking scandalised.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" Georgiana's voice bore the lethal, composed quiet she had inherited from her father. Now it was Hermione's jaw that fell open, and it was Voldemort who cleared his throat roughly.

"Georgie, this truth has not been any easier for your mother and I to accept over the years. There have been Prophecies - both in your mother's past and in our shared past. There have been confident predictions of events to come. But in many instances, those future paths have been redrawn, or even annihilated. Nothing is certain, and there is no destiny. Your mother's childhood was a real, concrete experience for her, but, as she said, that reality is gone now. Swept away like dust upon the floor by a series of interrelated choices. And, as you noted, your mother was not born until September of 1979."

"So, if you've changed the future so radically," Georgiana began, feeling dread pool in her abdomen, "then will Mum be born at all? What will happen in the autumn of 1979, when your timeline collides with her now-nonexistent past? Will she…" Georgiana turned her face to her mother, a sharp pang running down her spine as she saw the sadness in Hermione's eyes. Georgie sighed tremulously and asked, "Mum, are you going to disappear?"

"We have no idea, Georgie," Hermione admitted. "That's a great part of why we wanted to tell you the truth… because, in this existence, at least… the future is entirely unknown. We need to be prepared for anything."

Georgiana turned her back on her parents then, striding quickly over to the window. She gazed down from the Headmistress' Office, down many stories to the vale below. She gulped heavily and heard her father's shoes upon the floorboards behind her.

"Nothing is certain," he said again, and she saw the reflection of his angular face in the window. There was a stern determination in Voldemort's eyes as he said, "I will do everything I can."

"Do more," Georgiana choked out quietly, pressing her palm against the frigid window-pane, "or perhaps I shall disappear from you as well."

* * *

 _August 1949_

"Tom?"

Lord Voldemort cracked his eyes, promptly wrenching them shut again when the harsh glare of daylight hit him. He turned his face and shielded his eyes with his hand, sitting up slowly as Hermione said again,

"Tom… it's nearly noon. You _must_ get out of bed."

Voldemort grunted softly and hauled himself off the bed. He said nothing as he ambled to the bathroom. He shaved in contemplative silence and then yawned as he cleaned his teeth. He'd been up until nearly four in the morning in a heated meeting with Avery, Nott, Abraxas Malfoy, and Mulciber.

"What did you all decide?" Voldemort heard Hermione ask. He spit out his toothpaste and set down his wooden toothbrush, turning to where she had leaned against the door jamb with her arms crossed. She wore a simple black cotton dress with a lightweight robe over the top, and her hair had been rolled back and pinned into an elegant chignon. She'd painted her lips with ruby lipstick. Voldemort felt an oddly queasy sort of nervousness in his belly as he looked at her. She was more beautiful now than ever, he thought. Even after she'd left him and come back… even after five years during which she could have become dull to him… he was more attracted to and in love with her now than ever.

He watched as Hermione arched an eyebrow and moved to stand behind him. Voldemort's bare back tingled as she touched her fingertips lightly between his shoulder blades. She peeked her head around his bicep and met his gaze in the mirror. Voldemort struggled to keep his face stony, shutting his eyes as she asked once more,

"Your meeting. What came of that?"

"Dumbledore is gathering a society of witches and wizards opposed to my ascent," Voldemort heard himself say. His mind was almost entirely focused on the feel of Hermione's fingers ghosting around his back. He leaned forward and gripped the sides of the white porcelain sink, muttering, "There are twenty-five known Aurors and others who have allied themselves with Dumbledore. They meet in Mould-on-the-Wold on a semi-regular basis; Mulciber has been disguising himself to overhear conversations in the pub or to stand in an alley as they file into the house where they meet. They don't seem particularly careful; they're more open than I'd like."

Voldemort hissed through his teeth then, for Hermione had moved one hand from his back and was trailing it around the flannel leg of his pyjama trousers. At last, she danced her fingers in front of him, brushing at his crotch. Voldemort's member instantly came to attention, hardening quite a bit inside of his trousers. He grunted quietly and put his hand over Hermione's, urging her to give him more attention there.

Her hand flinched beneath his, but then relaxed. Their hands dragged and petted and teased his trousers together in synchronized motion, and Voldemort felt his heart thud inside his chest.

"Who's he got, then?" he heard Hermione ask quietly from behind him.

Voldemort raised his face and opened his eyes. He smirked back at Hermione in the mirror. She did not smile back. "Tell me who's against you," she whispered, and Voldemort shuddered at the beautiful, deadly quality her voice possessed.

"Why?" he demanded with a little snort of disbelief. "So you can murder them all on my behalf?"

"I'm no murderer." Hermione shook her head slowly, insistently. Her fingers moved deftly to pull at the ties on Voldemort's trousers, and then she crept her hand inside and took hold of his erect manhood. Voldemort's knuckles went white around the sink, and he bucked his hips forward into her hand instinctively. Hermione continued, unfazed, "I don't plan on killing anyone… or, as you so prefer to say, 'eliminating.' And I know you're not fool enough to do that just now, either, nor to start an open war. But I know you'll be watching them closely, and that, someday, inevitably, they will die. Because you will kill them, whether I want you to or not. I just want to know who they are."

Her hand had started a smooth dance on him, spreading the little drop of moisture from the tip of his cock down the shaft. Voldemort's breath shook through his clenched teeth as he thought about what she'd said. She was right about everything, as usual. It infuriated him that she was very usually right. It was as she'd insisted; she was no murderer. But Voldemort was. He had killed before and he had no qualms about the concept of doing so again. The only reason Dumbledore and his crew of disobedient lackies were being left more or less alone was - as Hermione had said - the strategic disadvantage of being blamed for their murder. The wizarding community in Britain had been outright grateful when Tom Riddle had slain Gellert Grindelwald. The public was cooling in its enthusiasm for the 'great' Albus Dumbledore, but he was not so far gone from their hearts that they would regard his death in the same way they'd done Grindelwald's. Voldemort needed Dumbledore to stay alive, to make foolish mistakes, to become an utter outcast in the face of Voldemort's popular rise. Only then - and most certainly then - would Voldemort kill Dumbledore and his followers.

"I don't think he's dangerous to you, Tom," he heard Hermione mumble, her breath and lips warm as she kissed her words onto his back. Voldemort shivered against his will, and Hermione continued, "He needs you alive just as much as you need him alive. The people love you more than they love him. If he were to attack you now, it… wouldn't go well for him, I should think. The two of you are at an impasse, for the time being. Try to focus on gaining more support from those who are ambivalent about you. Dumbledore will do the same, and in the end what shall matter is who is the most beloved and who is the most despised."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes into the mirror, watching Hermione's hand pump against him. Her face peered around his arm again, and Voldemort snarled softly, "You practically worshipped Albus Dumbledore as a child. You aspired to be a part of his subversive organisation against me in your own time. Why do you speak about him this way now?"

"I didn't love you then," Hermione admitted, "and, anyway… that Dumbledore is not the man I see now. You killed Grindelwald and, I think, in doing so, you changed Albus Dumbledore forever. I don't care what I did or said or felt in that other time, Tom. That world is gone. All that matters is what I do now, here… with you. I love you. I didn't love you then."

Voldemort instinctively whirled around, gripping Hermione's shoulders in his hands and pushing her until she backed up toward the door. He leaned down to kiss her, pushing her backward through the threshold and into the bedroom. She squealed quietly and stumbled a bit on her feet, reaching instinctively up to clutch at Voldemort's shoulders. Voldemort's manhood grew harder than ever as he shoved her a bit harder toward the bed. Hermione flopped with a quiet _oof_ onto her back upon the duvet, and she stared up at Voldemort with her chestnut, doe-eyed gaze. He felt a surge of want, raw and needy, and he gulped the lump from his throat before he whispered raggedly,

"Take your knickers off, Hermione."

She curled up one side of her mouth, keeping her eyes locked on Voldemort's as she reached down. She slid up the skirt of her dark cotton dress and satin slip. She inched her fingers to the metal zipper at her side. She pulled it down and moved languorously to peel off her girdle, tormenting Voldemort with her slow motions. He felt a tingle of impatience forming behind his sternum, and he impulsively reached for his wand off the bedside table.

"Enough. _Tollere vestimentum_."

He snapped his wand at Hermione's prone form, and she gasped as a smattering of silver and purple sparks flew toward her and dissolved into her clothing. Her dress, girdle, slip, knickers, brassiere, and stockings disappeared quickly from her body, as if they had melted into thin air. His own pyjama trousers, too, vanished at once. Voldemort flicked his eyes to the other side of the bed, where the clothing reappeared in a neatly folded pile.

He tossed the wand down onto the duvet beside Hermione, taking her knees in his hands and yanking her legs apart. She moaned softly and he smirked as he trailed his fingertips up the inside of her thighs. Hermione wrenched her pretty brown eyes shut and drove her head backward, mussing her carefully-sculpted hairstyle.

"Look at me," Voldemort heard himself murmur, wanting very much to see her eyes again. She obeyed him, her fingers digging desperately against the duvet as a flash of desire came over her eyes. Voldemort narrowed his own coal-black eyes down at her and whispered, "That foolish oaf Rubeus Hagrid. Torcaill and Mirin Moody. Idris Oakby and some bloody Squib called Arabella Figg. Maggie Prewett and her mother Muriel. And some others."

Voldemort had just rattled off a list of people known to be allied against him, people seen by Mulciber as they came to Mould-on-the-Wold to meet with Albus Dumbledore. Voldemort hardened his eyes further, squaring his jaw and nodding down at Hermione as he watched her react. She shut her eyes and put her lips in a line, and Voldemort suddenly wondered whether he'd ruined their intimate moment. Her eyelids tightened and flinched as she lay quiet and still. He knew that she had been friends with Rubeus Hagrid in her own past, that the Squib Arabella Figg had been against him even in that timeline. He watched Hermione wrestle silently with her own scruples, and he stilled his hands upon the inside of her thighs.

"I love you," he heard her whisper, and he watched her nod against the duvet. She seemed to be convincing herself more than him as she continued, "All that matters is here and now, and I love you, Tom. Kiss me, please."

He did so at once, leaning down and placing a hand on either side of her shoulders. He dropped his face to hers, relishing the taste of her lips and the feeling of her loyalty. She was a different witch now than she'd been when he had first met her. She had hated him at first. That was obvious in how she had Vanished the first lilacs he'd given her, how she'd fought against their mutual attraction, how she had called him a monster. But she had come around slowly, a beautiful Darkness seeping into her veins and then eventually into her soul. Voldemort drank that Darkness from her as he kissed her, feeling the heavy presence of her changed nature in the quiet room.

He dragged his tongue against the roof of her mouth and felt her shiver beneath him, felt her fingers reach up to drift about his bare chest. Without breaking their kiss, Voldemort reached beside her and grabbed his wand once more. He focused his energy and his magic and pressed the tip of the wand against her abdomen, mentally incanting protective spells. Much as he would have loved to leave her fertile, now was scarcely the best time to be reproducing. Voldemort flung his wand aside again and reached down between them, taking his member in his hand. He broke his face from hers and dragged his open mouth down her neck, eliciting a groan of pleasure from her.

"Don't ever leave me again," he murmured against her skin, his voice quiet and garbled so that she would not understand him. He did not wish for her to hear him beg for anything. But he _had_ to beg. He had to plead with her body not to go away, not to drive him to commit acts of betrayal with its absence. And it was not just her body. It was her words and her help and her sense of humour and her intelligence. She needed to stay. She could not go.

Voldemort latched his mouth onto her right breast and grazed his teeth over her nipple. She howled a bit in shock, and Voldemort felt a crash of powerful arousal. His free hand massaged her other breast rather roughly, and then he stood and pressed the tip of his member at her sodden entrance. He paused there for a moment, shutting his eyes against the incredible feel of her wet warmth. He pushed his hips forward, and at the feel of her tightness enveloping him, he moaned like a randy schoolboy.

His fingers reached of their own accord to clutch at her hips, to steady himself as he pumped and thrust into her. She was filled and stretched by him, and the sensation of that sent crackling shivers up Voldemort's spine. He kept his movements deliberately slow and steady, determined to savour the connection of their bodies.

"Please, Tom," he heard her whine quietly after a while, "Faster… I need to… I can't…"

He chuckled under her breath at the sound of her nonsensical rambling, and he opened his eyes and saw that her alabaster cheeks had flushed scarlet. She was panting through slightly parted ruby lips, and the sight of her desperation sent Voldemort's heart thumping.

"Ask me again," he commanded her, "this time in a complete sentence."

Her cheeks darkened even further, and Voldemort laughed again at how his insistence had only turned her on further. He watched her long neck tighten and bob as she gulped, and then she croaked,

"Please fuck me harder, Tom, so that I can come. Please."

He pretended to consider her request for a moment, staring at her with a thoughtful expression. Then, without warning, he pulled himself entirely from her body and stood completely upright beside the bed. Hermione looked angry and disappointed, but Voldemort said sharply,

"If you want to come, then do it."

Hermione looked utterly confused then, her mouth dropping further open. Voldemort sneered a bit down at her, leaning to plant a kiss upon her lips as he whispered rather wickedly,

"Or shall I do it for you? Hm? Be careful what you wish for, My Lady."

He reached for his wand smoothly and dragged its tip up the inside of her thigh. His lips were still touching hers as she gasped. Voldemort felt his cock twitch as her hot breath panted against his mouth. She shut her eyes and whimpered as the tip of his wand crept ever upward.

" _Vim Gaudens Potens_ ," he muttered, the spell of his own making tumbling from her lips onto his. His wand vibrated against her skin, and then she gasped more loudly than ever. Her hands reached frantically for his shoulders, and Voldemort felt a sense of power and vindication as he watched her thrash and moan. He had made the spell up when she'd been gone; he'd fantasised that one day he might use it on her. He would never have contemplated using it with anyone else.

"Good girl… come for me, Hermione," he said, his breath catching in his throat as he pulled back to watch her fall apart. Her orgasm was long and powerful, but just as she seemed to be coming down from her high, Voldemort reached between them and drove himself back into her body. She was wracked by another wave of pleasure then, and she moaned his name like a desperate prayer.

His hips bucked rather wildly, his own need for release uncontrolled and spreading through him like wildfire. Voldemort felt the familiar tightening in his groin, felt himself grow harder and longer than ever, felt his ears ringing and his heart pounding. He clenched his teeth and let out a feral growl as he shoved his hips flush against Hermione's and filled her with his seed. The pleasure inside of him exploded like a bomb, and then there was a moment of blankness in his mind. Slowly, as he pulled himself from the mess he'd made inside of Hermione, the room seemed to re-materialise about them.

He lay back, naked and sated, onto the pillows. His stomach growled insistently, and he chuckled as he realised it was well after noon and he was still not dressed for the day.

"I've a meeting with the Lestrange family about funding at half past two," he lamented with a sigh, casting his forearm over his eyes and rather wishing he could go back to sleep. He cracked his eyes and watched Hermione get dressed and fix her hair. She turned over her shoulder as she put her earrings back in, a sad little smile crossing her face.

"I knew a Lestrange once myself," she said quietly. "Bellatrix Lestrange. Originally Black. I'm not certain who her parents were, but she was awful. She was sadistic. And she was your most loyal servant."

Voldemort cocked an eyebrow and sighed deeply. "She sounds helpful, this Bellatrix. I shall keep my eyes open for her," he said, trying to diffuse the tension that had suddenly filled the air around Hermione's body. It did not work; Hermione scowled and turned back to the mirror. Tom watched her face grow quite serious, and then she said,

"I'm here, and I'm now… with you. Bellatrix Lestrange is not a person, so she can't have done any of the terrible things I remember. I hope your meeting goes well, My Lord."

"Don't call me that." Voldemort felt a sickening twist of discomfort as she'd used the submissive title others did. He rather liked being 'My Lord' to the rest of the wizarding world, but not to Hermione. Not even in jest. She huffed a small laugh of disbelief, and Voldemort collected himself.

"I should like it very much if you attended the meeting with the Lestranges," he said cautiously, pausing to watch her react. Hermione turned round and smoothed her skirts as she asked in a tight voice,

"Why?"

"I find I make better choices when I've got your input," Voldemort admitted, tipping his chin up rather defensively. Hermione smiled broadly and shook her head.

"Very well. But I doubt you shall wish to attend naked. Get up, Tom."

* * *

 _December 1949_

"It's been five years since you killed Gellert Grindelwald." Arden Colporter tapped the tip of her quill against her parchment as she pursed her lips and raised her eyes to Lord Voldemort. He nodded once, slowly, and said,

"We've established that well-known historical fact already in this interview, Miss Colporter. What of it?"

"How do you suppose the death of Gellert Grindelwald affected Albus Dumbledore?"

Voldemort flicked his eyebrows up at that question. He carefully licked his bottom lip and drummed his fingertips against the arms of the chair, carefully considering his response. He stared at the fire in the hearth and thought back over the past several months. Then, at long last, he turned back to Arden Colporter. The journalist's eyes were wide with expectation. Voldemort cleared his throat softly and said,

"I believe that Albus Dumbledore would never have eliminated the threat of Grindelwald of his own volition. The two were quite close early in life, and though Dumbledore knew well of Grindelwald's foolish campaign for power, he did nothing to block the other wizard's ascent. When I eradicated the threat of Grindelwald, I do believe a bit of Dumbledore's sanity died, as well. The rest was chipped away in a slow, steady descent into madness over the subsequent five years."

"You contend that Dumbledore went mad in the wake of Grindelwald's death?" Arden Colporter asked incredulously. She arched a single brow and tapped the nib of her quill again.

"I do," Voldemort affirmed, nodding slowly once more. Arden Colporter hesitated for a moment, dragging her teeth over her lower lip. Finally, she asked in a cautious voice,

"Is that why he's dead?"


	5. Chapter 5

_**September 1949**_

"Hermione! My Lady!"

She turned over her shoulder and furrowed her brows deeply at the sound of Betty Cattermole's frantic voice. Hermione's mouth fell open in confusion when she saw Betty dashing through the gardens, fresh from the manor.

"What's happened, Betty?" Hermione demanded. Betty clutched her shoes in her hand and leaned forward onto her knees, struggling for breath. Hermione wished in that moment that she were a Legilimens like Tom, so that she could see what had Betty all riled up. At last, Betty choked out,

"My Lady, Milton Mulciber… in Mould-on-the-Wold…" Betty coughed and stood up straight, her normally pale cheeks splattered scarlet and her blonde curls a mess. Her blue eyes glittered as she collected herself and said, "Milton Mulciber was discovered by Dumbledore's followers. He was spying on a small meeting in a tavern in town. They incapacitated him, and Dumbledore is holding him hostage. The Dark Lord has just received an owl - rather, Abraxas received an owl addressed to the Dark Lord - with a list of demands from Dumbledore. We must find him at once, My Lady. This is a declaration of war, Abraxas says."

Hermione's breath shook and her eyes burned as she registered the seriousness of the situation. She nodded firmly and said to Betty,

"Assemble everyone you can in the meeting-room. I want Avery, Nott, Lestrange, every Malfoy available. The Bulstrodes and the Greengrasses. Every Black you can wrangle up. The Rosiers, your parents, and the Longbottoms. Everyone needs to be in that meeting-room within an hour. Get owls out immediately and order everyone to Apparate here at once. I shall fetch the Dark Lord."

Betty nodded obediently, but hesitated with a look of fear upon her face. "My Lady, shall I… shall I simply…"

She pulled back the sleeve of her robe, and Hermione saw the Dark Mark tattoo that had been imprinted on Betty's forearm just a week previously. Of course. The Dark Mark. Hermione had rather forgotten about the tattoos. She bore one, as well. They were to serve not as symbols of submission, but rather as a sort of homing signal among Tom's most loyal ranks. Hermione nodded and pulled out her own wand.

"Naturally, Betty. I don't know how I forgot…" She licked her bottom lip and touched the tip of her wand to the faint design upon Betty's arm. She gritted her teeth in distaste as the brand darkened in colour to a vibrant black. She felt her own Dark Mark burn beneath the fabric of her robes, and she knew that every witch and wizard bearing the Mark would sense the summons to Malfoy Manor.

"Go," Hermione said quickly, shooing Betty toward the house. "Go and prepare the room for the meeting. I shall bring the Dark Lord as quickly as possible."

"Yes, My Lady." Betty bowed her head and turned round, clutching at the Mark on her wrist as she ran. Hermione sighed deeply and reached to touch the key at her throat. Her fingers drifted over the locket of Salazar Slytherin for a moment, and then she pinched the little silver key and shut her eyes.

 _Tom,_ she thought, propelling her thoughts straight from her core. _Tom, I know you're in London. Whatever you're doing just now, I promise you it is not as important as this. Please, come at once. Everyone's coming. I've summoned them. Please, Tom… come back immediately._

There was a sudden _crack!_ in the air a few metres away. Hermione gasped and whirled round to see Tom striding breathlessly between the rose bushes.

"What on Earth is going on?" he demanded. Hermione felt dizzy as she related everything Betty Cattermole had told her. Tom reached out to clutch Hermione's hand, and then he was nearly running as he dragged her toward the manor. Hermione trotted to keep up with him, squeezing his hand tightly as she did.

"Dumbledore is a bloody fool," she heard him snarl as he slashed the air with his wand. The heavy double doors at the front of Malfoy Manor creaked open in response to his spell, and Hermione followed him into the house. He continued to rant as they padded up the marble staircase. "Does he honestly believe that I shall give into a single one of his 'demands'? That I can not turn the people against him just as easily as I made them love me?"

"I don't know, Tom," Hermione said honestly. She paused, pulling back on Tom's hand at the top of the staircase. He turned round to face her, his eyes angry. Hermione reached up and absentmindedly picked a bit of lint from the front of his robe. She let out a quivering breath through her nostrils and said, "I admit I have never known Dumbledore to act so irrationally. But, as we have discussed, this is a different Dumbledore than I ever knew. And you did kill the person he seemed to care for the most."

"He will pay for this insolence with his life," Tom insisted. He snapped at the hem of his black suit coat beneath his robe, jutting his jaw forward and giving Hermione a crisp nod. Then he spun round on the balls of his feet and continued away down the corridor. Hermione huffed and followed him into his office. Abraxas Malfoy was in there, staring into the fireplace with a parchment scroll clutched in his hand. Abraxas stood up straight when Tom and Hermione entered the room, and then he held out the scroll to Tom and bowed a bit.

"My Lord," he said carefully, "this is the letter from Dumbledore, sir."

Hermione sidled up beside Tom and held onto his elbow as he unfurled the scroll. They read together for a long moment, the silence nearly crushing the little office. With every word she read, Hermione felt her disbelief ballooning.

 _Dear Mr Riddle,_

 _It has come to my attention that a friendly acquaintance of yours has been spotted in a tavern here in Mould-on-the-Wold. Ordinarily, Tom, I should be inclined to simply ignore this fact, for in theory a tavern is a public location open to any and all patrons. Mr Mulciber had every right to sit at a table and enjoy a good butterbeer, just as my own friends have that right. However, Mr Mulciber made the terrible mistake of Transfiguring his features and attending said tavern in disguise. As a result, he was able to discern a conversation between my friends which, if reported back to you, might put a great many lives at risk._

 _Mr Mulciber has been made duly aware of the importance of his silence. Indeed, the memory of the conversation he overheard has been permanently Obliviated from his mind. More importantly, I have decided that Mr Mulciber should stay here in Mould-on-the-Wold until such time as I have reassurance from you on several matters._

 _Let me begin, Tom, by assuring you that I have all confidence in your abilities and power. In fact, that is why I have detained Mr Mulciber - because I believe that without concrete consequences for your actions, your ascent shall be nearly impossible to halt. Therefore, let my demands henceforth never be misconstrued as underestimation of your skill._

 _When Miss Granger first arrived at Hogwarts several years ago, she handed me a scroll. It was a letter that she'd been instructed to give me by the terrible Dark wizard who had sent her back in time. The letter was a bit threatening, if I'm honest, promising grave repercussions for anyone who sought to keep Miss Granger away from the young Tom Riddle. I was instructed by this letter to simply stand back and let time take its course. I feel that I have obeyed this command (perhaps unwisely, and almost certainly at the cost of Gellert Grindelwald's life) for nearly five years._

 _But now, Tom, I see a great Darkness casting its shadow over wizarding Britain. Everywhere, young witches and wizards speak of the 'Dark Lord,' of how he shall unite wizardkind under a banner of progress and prosperity, of how his Dark magic is the only hope for our people. But I know this 'Dark Lord' as a very tragic boy in a Muggle orphanage, a boy who was abused by the world and hurled the abuse straight back with pleasure. This boy, I think, is not the hope for the future. This boy, I think, has already committed a great many awful deeds and aspires only to commit more._

 _It is for that reason, Tom, that I now sit in a room with poor Mr Mulciber, who has been Obliviated and magically bound to this place, until I have enough confidence in the future to free him. You must make a promise - a magically-binding promise - to immediately cease all fundraising, recruiting, and aspirational efforts under the pseudonym of 'Lord Voldemort.' You must fade from the public scene into comfortable obscurity, into an ordinary life where no one bends the knee at your command. You must surrender all funds heretofore acquired through questionable means, and you must announce to your associates that you are no longer seeking power in the wizarding world._

 _Once I have these assurances, Mr Riddle, I shall be more than happy to send Mr Mulciber on his way. Until then, please be assured that there are many others who can join Mr Mulciber here in Mold-on-the-Wold. There is no path to power for you, Tom. Your delusions of grandeur are ended, from this day forward. In this matter, I do not require your consent, nor your cooperation. However, it shall be easier for the both of us if you do cooperate._

 _Regards,_

 _Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

* * *

 **December 1949**

Voldemort stared through the firelight at Arden Colporter, who had cocked up an eyebrow and was waiting for him to answer her question.

"Is that why Dumbledore is dead?" she repeated at last. "Because he'd 'gone mad'?"

Voldemort squared his jaw and sniffed. "I assure you, Miss Colporter, that I learnt of Dumbledore's death the very same way you did. In a copy of the Daily Prophet. I know nothing more of the incident than you do, I'm sure."

Arden Colporter's eyes narrowed a bit, and she nodded with a frown. "So the man convicted of the murder… Alois Nott… you know nothing of him, either?"

Voldemort cleared his throat and drummed his fingers impatiently upon the arms of the chair. "Is this an interview, or an interrogation, Miss Colporter?"

"An interview." She nodded and flashed him a little smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I can see you don't wish to discuss Albus Dumbledore in any capacity. Let's move on, then, shall we? I am made to understand that you have patronised several endeavours in the expansion of wizarding technology over the past year. What can you tell me about that?"

Voldemort quirked up the corner of his mouth and gave a curt nod. "Yes. Now _that_ is something, Miss Colporter, which I am quite happy to discuss."

* * *

 **September 1956**

"...and this is the final one, My Lord."

"Thank you, Mulciber." Lord Voldemort accepted the last sheet of parchment from Mulciber, hovering the nib of his quill over it as he read the indictment. He pinched his lips into a straight line and flicked his eyes up to Mulciber. "Arden Colporter?" Voldemort asked, sniffing lightly and watching as Mulciber shifted uncomfortably upon his feet.

"I'm afraid her most recent biography of the Dark Lady was… less than complimentary, My Lord. It was proofread before being published, of course, and her publisher sent the copy to us. She was questioned and admitted to hopes that the biography would prove ruinous to the Dark Lady and to yourself."

"Foolish wench." Voldemort shook his head and clucked his tongue. "She's always been something of a fool." He sighed and shook his head as he scratched his signature onto the parchment, blowing lightly on the ink and handing it back to Mulciber. "That will be all. Good evening, Mulciber."

"Good evening, My Lord." Mulciber gave a polite little bow as he turned round and opened the office door. As he made his way through the threshold, there was a little squeal and Mulciber apologised profusely to someone Voldemort could not see. Then Mulciber stepped aside, and a breathless Georgiana padded past him into the office. Mulciber kept going and shut the door behind him as Georgiana made her way into Voldemort's office.

She was very nearly five years of age, and her black curls had grown past her shoulders. She was immaculately dressed, as always; Hermione would never permit for the child to look unkempt. Georgiana smoothed her dark taffeta skirts and trotted around Voldemort's desk. She thrust out a turquoise, worn copy of a book at him, and she said,

"Father, _please_ , will you read to me? Mummy says I've got only twenty minutes before my bath, and then I'm to bed! But I want you to read to me. _Please_ , Father?"

Voldemort snorted delicately and set his quill down upon his desk. He nodded warmly and stood, making his way over to the armchairs before the fireplace. He sat in one and grunted as Georgiana scrambled up onto his lap. Her skinny little knees dug into his thighs as she turned round and made herself comfortable. Then she held up the book, and Voldemort heard himself complain,

" _The Tales of Beedle the Bard?_ Again, Georgie?"

"They're my favourites!" Georgiana insisted, and Voldemort laughed under his breath. He leaned down to kiss Georgie's soft curls, and he reached round her to open the book. She clapped happily when he arrived at "The Warlock's Hairy Heart."

He read her the story in a quiet, low voice, narrowing his eyes a bit at the part where the warlock ripped out the maiden's heart.

"Father?" Georgiana asked quietly after Voldemort had finished the story. "Could this story ever be real? Could a person take their own heart out and keep it in a box and still be alive?"

"No, Georgie. It's just make-believe," Voldemort answered. He tried not to ponder why exactly Georgiana would ask such a thing, for it seemed a heavy question for such a young child. But then Georgiana turned round, her doe-eyed expression glittering in the firelight.

"Do _you_ have a heart, Father?"

Voldemort was stunned by that question, so much so that his mouth dropped open a bit and he blinked rapidly.

"Of… of course I have a heart, Georgie," he answered rather crisply. She looked confused, so he raised his eyebrows and demanded, "How else could I love you and your mother so dearly?"

"I don't know," Georgiana admitted, "but if you do have a heart, how is it that you do so many of the other things?"

"The 'other things'?" Voldemort was abruptly frustrated by Georgiana, in a manner that surprised him. He nearly bid her straight to her bath just to be rid of the disturbing questions, but Georgiana pressed on,

"Bellatrix Black says you've killed people. She thought it was funny."

Voldemort felt a strange pang in his chest then, and he shut his eyes for a moment. He pursed his lips and whispered, "Georgie, I do not want you to worry about such things. Bellatrix is just being silly, you understand?"

" _Have_ you killed people, Father?" Georgiana asked, and Voldemort felt distinctly unwell. He gulped, trying to rid his throat of the lump there to no avail. At last, he replied,

"Yes, Georgie. But I don't wish to speak of it just now. Let's read another story, eh?"

He flipped through the book a bit, and Georgiana sighed melodramatically as she turned back round.

"This one is called 'The Tale of the Three Brothers,'" Voldemort said matter-of-factly, forcing his voice to be more flinty than ever as he relayed the story of the Deathly Hallows to Georgiana.

"Now," she said confidently when the story had ended, "This one I _know_ is real!"

"Oh you do, do you?" Voldemort chuckled, shaking his head and moving to shut the book. Georgiana surprised him by grabbing the book from him and holding it out as she turned to face him.

"Yes! It must be real," Georgiana insisted, jabbing her finger at an illustration. "Look, see? There's your wand, just there!"

Voldemort frowned deeply as he pushed her finger aside a bit and studied the illustration. He had never taken a proper moment to examine the pictures in the old book.

"I suppose the Elder Wand does rather look like my wand," he admitted, shrugging and assuming it was mere coincidence. But then Georgiana nodded frantically and added,

"And Bellatrix Black says you got your wand when you killed a great Dark wizard! Her mummy told her so! So it must be the Elder Wand. All you've got to do, Father, is find the other two Hallows and you shall be the Master of Death! Just like the story."

She stared at him with expectant eyes, and Voldemort felt a shock of cold shoot up his spine. He snatched the book from Georgiana's hands and scanned back through the story. He remembered distinctly the day he had acquired his current wand. When he had murdered Grindelwald and taken his wand as a trophy, the wand had indeed responded immediately to him. It had, in fact, responded better to Voldemort than his original wand had done. He had always simply believed that Grindelwald's wand was better made, a better fit for him. It had been happy coincidence that he had wanted it as a trophy. But to consider that the wand he possessed now was the Elder Wand of lore…

"Georgie," Voldemort said, his voice hollow and stony, "Go and fetch your mother, will you please?"

* * *

 _September 1949_

"Tom… please, I beg you. Try to pause and think -"

"I've thought plenty, Hermione." Voldemort glared at Hermione's reflection in the full-length mirror as he straightened his tie. He turned round and snapped his sleeves a bit, and he watched her expression crumble as tears welled in her pretty brown eyes.

"No more death," she whispered, and her trembling hands reached up to cover her eyes. Voldemort ground his teeth a bit and sighed, but Hermione shook her head and said again, "How many people have to die so that you can feel powerful?"

"As many as I deem necessary. I shall be home soon. Go ahead and eat supper without me, hm?"

He brushed past her and headed for the bedroom door. He paused with his hand upon the doorknob when he heard her shaking voice say from behind him,

"At least let me come with you."

Voldemort rolled his eyes a bit as he turned round, and he said in an annoyed voice, "This is not Grindelwald, Hermione. This is not Nurmengard. There shall be no Inferi that need burning, nor prisoners that need liberation. There is only Albus Dumbledore, and I can handle him well enough on my own."

"Do you not trust me?" Hermione demanded, and Voldemort felt a dull surge of anger at that question. He sniffed lightly and admitted,

"It is… difficult…. to trust as deeply once one has been abandoned by one's spouse for seven months. You stand before me in tears over this, Hermione. Why should I believe you will help me kill -"

"I shall help you do what is necessary in each and every moment," Hermione vowed. A stony resolution came over her face, and her fists balled at her sides as she stood up straighter. "I am your wife, Tom. Your very nearest ally. Let me come with you."

Voldemort considered her proposition. He had intended to ambush Dumbledore in his home at Mould-on-the-Wold, but of course there were a few concerns. What if Dumbledore had allies with him? What if he'd set up magical defences that actually _worked_? What if - and this was something Voldemort did not care to contemplate much - what if Dumbledore was stronger than Tom in a one-to-one duel? Of _course_ it had occurred to Voldemort to bring Hermione, or a crew of lackies, with him. But a niggling bit of his brain doubted Hermione's ability to kill, or to simply stand back whilst Voldemort himself killed Dumbledore.

She had spent the past three days attempting to convince Voldemort that murder was unnecessary. He should simply ignore Dumbledore's demands and sacrifice Mulciber, she'd said. He should write Dumbledore back with threats of his own. He should take one of Dumbledore's allies prisoner and demand an equal exchange and cessation of hostilities. He should do _anything_ except kill Albus Dumbledore, she'd said. But Voldemort knew better. He knew that no prisoner swap, or angry letter, or petulant spell of ignoring Dumbledore would end the threat the old man posed. Only with Dumbledore's death would Voldemort be truly rid of his most dangerous enemies. And so, today, he had decided that he would go to Mould-on-the-Wold himself and kill Albus Dumbledore.

Hermione stepped across the room to where Voldemort stood. She put her hand over his on the doorknob, and then Voldemort met her eyes. There was a steely lack of emotion in them, and he shivered a bit at the determined tone in her voice when she spoke.

"I have a sneaking suspicion, Tom, that you will go to Mould-on-the-Wold no matter what I say. I can ask you not to go. I can threaten to leave you again. I can go to the Ministry and tell them you're plotting murder. But I don't think anything I say will stop you. It isn't that you don't respect my opinion - it's simply that you've a stubborn opinion of your own, and you've made up your mind. I can see that."

Voldemort gulped heavily, attempting to rid his throat of a thick knot. He gave Hermione a single curt nod, and she continued,

"But, Tom… if you appear in the streets of that town and barge into Dumbledore's home and get into a loud and obvious duel with him, what do you suppose shall happen? Do you suppose you will be lauded as a hero again, as you were with Grindelwald? Do you suppose the people of this country could possibly suspect anyone else in Dumbledore's death?"

"Have you any novel suggestions for this problem, Hermione, or do you simply advise that I ignore Dumbledore, as you've been doing for days?" Voldemort heard the bite in his own voice, and Hermione flinched as she lowered her eyes and shook her head.

"It has to look like suicide," she whispered, and Voldemort felt a shock jolt up his spine. He couldn't have heard her correctly.

"What?" he demanded numbly, and Hermione raised red-rimmed eyes to him and whispered,

"The witches and wizards of this country do not believe Albus Dumbledore to be evil. What they have mostly come to think, since Dumbledore feuded with Armando Dippet and fled Hogwarts, is that he's a bit of madman. 'Gone batty,' they all say, and they gossip about his past with Grindelwald. You drove Dumbledore mad when you killed Grindelwald. That's what they all say."

"So what, _exactly_ , should I do, Madam Villeneuve, to ensure that I am rid of Dumbledore's threats, and that I am not reviled as a murderer?" Voldemort lowered his face to Hermione's, hovering his lips just inches away from hers. He could hear the anxious growl in his own voice, could feel the thudding of his heart in his chest. He watched Hermione's face tighten, as though she loathed the ideas going through her own mind. She shut her eyes and murmured,

"Put him under the Imperius Curse. Have him write a suicide note, and have him drink poison. It needs to look as though Dumbledore's love for Grindelwald, and his belief that your rise is inevitable, led him to kill himself."

Voldemort was categorically shocked by what Hermione had suggested. He had, with Legilimency, looked into Hermione's memories and had seen the admiration she'd borne for Dumbledore. As a young student at Hogwarts, Dumbledore had seemed like a demigod to Hermione Granger. She had admired his moral fortitude, his magical power, his wisdom and kindly nature. She had wanted to join the Order of the Phoenix, a group staunchly opposed to the resurrected Lord Voldemort, with Dumbledore at the helm.

Hermione Granger had been a loyal fan of Albus Dumbledore. Hermione Villeneuve had written the man off as an enemy. It was almost baffling, almost unbelievable, but then Voldemort thought back over the past five years. Hermione had been wrestling with her scruples ever since she'd arrived in this time, but little by little, she had given in to the latent Darkness in her soul. She was a woman of principle, but she was also a woman of empirical and rational logic. It did not make sense in this existence for her to favour mercy for Dumbledore. It would be a fool's opinion, she was telling herself, to argue that Dumbledore and a powerful young Voldemort could ever co-exist. And she was only married to one of those wizards.

Voldemort suddenly crashed his lips against Hermione's, crushing her mouth with a vicious kiss that licked and nipped and suckled. One hand cupped her cheek and the other flew to her back, pulling her snugly against his own form.

"I love you," he heard himself whisper frantically. Hermione did not kiss him back for an agonising moment, choosing instead to simply stand and receive his enthusiastic affections. But at last, her body relented, and then her tongue was dancing with his and her hands had snaked up to Voldemort's shoulders.

"Poison," he nodded, swiping the back of his hand over his lips after he pulled away from her. "And a note."

"Baneberry Potion would only take three days to brew," Hermione nodded, looking at one defeated and determined. Her voice crackled with emotion as she said softly, "There's no pain to the drinker, but death is swift. It would be a likely choice for suicide."

"All right, then," Voldemort nodded. "Let's get to work, shall we?"

* * *

 _September 1949_

Hermione dragged her fingertips over the dusty glass bottles in the Malfoy family potions storeroom. It was in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, and many of the ingredients bottles had dried up through years of disuse. Hermione had gone to Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade twice each in the past week, each time having disguised herself by Transfiguring her features. Anonymity had been of the utmost importance, as well as spacing visits, in order to acquire some of the more suspicious and well-known potions ingredients. There was only one ingredient she had been terrified to purchase from an apothecary, for its use in potions-making was almost exclusively limited to the lethal eponymous poison. Baneberries, she knew, would be handed over by a professional apothecary only with a glare of distrust and a memory of who had purchased the ingredient.

Now, in the dungeon storeroom, Hermione's fingers paused upon a rather large blue glass bottle. Its label had faded yellow and frayed with time, but the handwriting clearly stated, _BANEBERRY - Twig, leaves, and berries preserved with Conservaeternum Charm. To reactivate berries' potency, incant the spell, 'Utilebacas,' with wand forming figure-8 motion._

Hermione pulled the blue glass bottle from the shelves and turned to go from the dank, chilly storeroom. She shivered as she padded out of the dungeons by the light of her illuminated wand-tip. She made her way up to the main level of the Manor and down a narrow corridor until she reached the room she and Tom had been using to brew the potion that would kill Albus Dumbledore.

She had struggled for a week with the concept of murdering Dumbledore. But there was no other way, she thought. There was no way to ensure that Tom would both survive and flourish. And, like it or not, she was tied to Tom in more ways than she could count. In this life, Albus Dumbledore had proved himself to be an aggressor, someone categorically opposed to the man Hermione loved. For that reason, she thought, there was no choice.

She pushed open the door to the spare room and saw that Tom had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was leaning over the copper cauldron on the table in the centre of the room, his hair mussed and his face shining with perspiration. He had his eyes shut and held up a finger to make Hermione pause in the doorway. He was quietly counting stirs of his silver rod as he changed direction and began stirring anti-clockwise.

"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two," he said, and then he stilled his hand and opened his eyes. He stared at Hermione for a long moment, and she felt a quiver of a strong but unidentifiable emotion. Tom raked his fingers through his raven hair and asked breathlessly,

"Have you got the berries?"

Hermione nodded once, silently crossing the room with the blue bottle held out to Tom. He took it gratefully and read the label whilst Hermione studied the bubbling copper cauldron. The potion was very nearly finished; over the past three days, she and Tom had meticulously stirred and chopped and waved their wands over the brewing mixture. There had been Ptolemy and doxy eggs added, as well as Essence of Tansy and pennyroyal tincture. More smashed doxy eggs and an entire vial of doxy venom had gone in just before Hermione had left the room last, and that was what Tom had been left stirring. The potion appeared as a deep scarlet, opaque liquid, delicately shimmering like sunlight water. Hermione felt ill suddenly, as she realised just how near she and Tom were to finishing the weapon they'd chosen to murder Albus Dumbledore. Hermione shut her eyes and wondered just what her parents and Harry and Ron would think of her being complicit (active, even) in the death of the great Albus Dumbledore. She forced thoughts of her old life from her mind, knowing full well that she could never have that world back even if she'd wanted it.

" _Utilebacas,_ " she heard Tom say firmly, and she opened her eyes to see that he was waving his wand in the air above the little branch of baneberries. The berries twitched a bit upon Tom's cutting board, and he picked up his silver knife and used the blade to crush the berries. Hermione took a small step backward as Tom meticulously chopped up the pulp of the berries, dragging them into a neat pile with the knife. Then he wordlessly used his wand to levitate the pile of berry mash and guide it into the cauldron. The mixture popped and sputtered when the berry mash made contact, and then Tom stirred the potion a few times. He aimed his knobby wand at the top of the cauldron, and a cold stillness came over his features. His throat bobbed, and he murmured a few low words as he dragged his wand in a circle above the cauldron.

There was an agonising silence, and Hermione flicked her eyes from Tom to the poison and back again. At last, she saw him nod matter-of-factly, and then he reached for the ladle and spooned some of the red, soupy poison into a vial. He pressed a cork into the top of the vial and held it up to the sunlight streaming in through the window.

"This," he said calmly, "is the potion that shall pave my way to power."

Hermione felt dizzy and weak at the knees, and she wondered abruptly whether she had chosen the wrong side in all of this. She licked her lips and whispered anxiously, "When will you go?"

They had decided that it was best for Hermione _not_ to accompany Tom to Mould-on-the-Wold. Tom had suggested that it would be far easier for him to ambush Dumbledore undetected if he did so alone and disguised. He had enlisted the help of a few spies to determine what wards Dumbledore had about his house, and whether there were usually guards. The spies had reported that Albus Dumbledore could be found in the town's tavern every day for luncheon at precisely noon. Tom had decided to go to the tavern in disguise and cast an Imperius Curse upon Dumbledore there. A strong witch or wizard could disobey an Imperius Curse, of course, and there was a small chance that Dumbledore would overwhelm the Unforgivable. But Tom had expressed his confidence to Hermione that the Imperius Curse he would place on Dumbledore would be insurmountable in strength. From the tavern, Tom intended to force Dumbledore back to his home, where Dumbledore would use his own hand to craft an elaborately planned suicide note. He would then feed himself the Baneberry Potion, and Tom would wait to leave until he was certain Dumbledore was dead. All that would be left would be to wait for news of Dumbledore's death and to play dumb.

Hermione had been so horrified by all these plans that she had known very well that Tom was right in leaving her at Malfoy Manor. Her presence on this expedition would be nothing but a distraction to Tom. Beyond that, she had no true desire to watch Dumbledore die with her own eyes. She looked to Tom with expectation, wondering again when exactly he intended on leaving.

"It's half past ten," he said thoughtfully, dragging the pad of his thumb over the cork on the bottle of poison. "Dumbledore goes to the tavern each day at noon. I shall go immediately."

Hermione shut her eyes and nodded. But then she said, "I believe you lose a bit of your soul when you do things like this," she informed Tom. "Please don't come back to me any more of a monster than you must."

"I may well be a monster," Tom replied, and Hermione squeezed her eyes more tightly shut as he used his thumb to brush away a tear from her cheek. He sighed lightly and said, "But if I am a monster, it is only because others have compelled me to do monstrous things. The world would be very Dark indeed, Hermione, even if I were not in it. Darkness lurks everywhere, anxious and ready to snuff out a light. But even the blackest Darkness may be pierced by a small bit of goodness, and it is you who has cast moonlight and scattered stars among the night sky of my being. I am no more a monster than I must be, and if it were not me, it would be someone else. You temper my madness, Hermione. Even deeds such as this save more lives than they cost."

She shook her head against his hand, unwilling to accept his righteous justification of his own wickedness. She opened her eyes and said in a breaking voice,

"Just go, will you? I can't think on it any more or I shall beg you to stay. So just go."

Tom nodded curtly and leaned down to place a small kiss upon Hermione's forehead. "I do love you," he assured her, "very much indeed. You know that." The last bit was not a question. Hermione watched him smirk a bit as he pushed a stray tendril of hair from her eyes, and then he raised his wand and flourished it, whispering, " _Eludebas syringa."_

A small bouquet of lilacs appeared in the air, falling slowly downward until Tom grasped the stems and held them out to Hermione. She felt a hammering inside of her veins as she silently took the lilacs. Tom nodded again and whirled around to stride quickly from the room. When he'd gone, Hermione wordlessly Vanished the remaining poison from the cauldron. Then, realising it would be critical that the poison not be traced back to her or Tom, she raised her wand again and swept it over the clean cauldron and all the potions supplies upon the desk.

" _Evanesco,_ " she muttered, and she was instantly transported back to her fifth year, during which she had been the only student in Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration class able to successfully Vanish objects. She watched as the potions supplies disappeared into non-being, and then Hermione crumpled.

She sat upon the floor in a messy heap of robes and hair, heaving with sobs and thrashing the lilacs upon the floor as the reality of everything crashed over her. That old life was gone. Professor McGonagall's fifth year Transfiguration course was gone. Albus Dumbledore would never be Headmaster of Hogwarts. These things could not ever come to pass, in large part because of choices Hermione had made.

She cried upon the floor for a great long while, knowing exactly what it was that Tom was off doing. With every moment that she failed to go after him, to stop him, to save Albus Dumbledore, Hermione cried harder. At some point, she dissolved into an exhausted sleep where she was huddled upon the stone floor, her trembling form surrounded by scattered leaves and petals of the lilacs Tom had Conjured for her.

* * *

 _August 1978_

Georgiana huffed as she threw open the door to her little rented house, walking briskly over the threshold and tossing her canvas bag down haphazardly. She glanced about her parlour and flicked her wand a few times, neatening up the stacks of books that were strewn about, folding a stray wool blanket, and lighting a fire in the hearth. She was expecting Bilius any moment now, for they'd arranged to have dinner together after each finished work for the day.

Georgiana had been working at St. Mungo's for nearly six months now, under the tutelage of the wizened old Healer Percival. She had volunteered for service in the Magical Bugs department of the hospital as soon as the Jeiunium outbreak had started. Georgiana's parents had been unwilling at first to see her work with contagious disease, and many in the wizarding world had expressed awe that the daughter of the Dark Lord was to work with the Healers in developing a vaccine for the Jeiunium that had swept over the country. But for Georgiana, such work was not only purposeful, but also essential. She was a skilled potions-maker, and she hoped that her work would contribute to ending the terrible Jeiunium epidemic. Beyond the altruistic intentions, she very much enjoyed work that distinguished her accomplishments from those of her parents.

She had spent many evenings during the past six months with Bilius Weasley, her very dearest friend. Bilius often Apparated to Mould-on-the-Wold, where Georgiana rented her modest house, from London. He worked for the Ministry of Magic as head of the Spirit Division in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Between Bilius' daily meetings with ghosts and Georgiana's work with deadly disease, their conversations quite often revolved around thoughtful meditations on mortality. Other times, they drank elf-made wine until the wee hours of the morning and laughed about things they did and saw and read. Only with Bilius did Georgiana feel she could truly emancipate herself from the anxieties of working on the Jeiunium vaccine. Only with Bilius was she not at all the daughter of the Dark Lord, but simply Georgiana Jean Gaunt.

There was a quiet rapping upon Georgiana's door, and she glanced in the mirror above her hearth as she fussed with her black curls and ensured that her lipstick was still fresh. Georgiana was not at all certain why she cared how she looked for Bilius, but as she flung open the door, she felt an odd flutter in her belly. She grinned at him as he held out a bottle of elf-made wine and stepped over her threshold. He kicked off his boots and hung his cloak upon the rack at the door, making himself quite at home as Georgiana took the wine.

"I haven't begun cooking yet," she admitted. "I only just got home from work, I'm afraid. The last prototype of the vaccine made symptoms _worse_ in test subjects; they became emaciated faster than ever and -"

"Georgie, please do not misconstrue my sense of urgency for a lack of interest in your work." Bilius Weasley raked his thin fingers through his ginger hair, and his pale freckled cheeks flushed pink all of sudden. Georgiana froze, her mouth falling open as she cocked her head and prepared to ask Bilius what he meant. But then he explained rather breathlessly, "I have not come for dinner. I have come… Georgie, I need to ask you something. To tell you something."

Georgiana numbly gestured toward the sitting room, taking a step away from Bilius and leading the way out of the cramped foyer. But then she felt Bilius' hand close about her wrist, and her heart began to race as she whirled back to face him.

"What's going on?" she asked quietly, seeing the glittering intensity in Bilius' caramel eyes. He let out a shaking breath, and then he whispered,

"Have you any idea how long I have loved you, Georgie? How fiercely I love you at this moment?"

Georgiana dropped the bottle of wine, her hand suddenly losing its grip. She gasped when the glass shattered upon the tile floor, sending blood-red wine flying. Bilius wordlessly cleaned up the mess with a few Vanishing spells, and as he did, Georgiana registered just what he had said. He was in love with her. Of course he was. She'd been pretending that wasn't true for years. She'd been pretending, too, that she did not love him straight back. It was too frightening to consider a change in the paradigm of their friendship. She _needed_ Bilius just as she'd had him since they were children - as someone to make her smile, someone to adore her for her truest self, someone to listen and talk for endless hours. She never wanted to be without Bilius, and that was precisely why she had spent the past decade or so ignoring the fact that they loved one another.

She stared up at Bilius' face, seeing the flash of unease and uncertainty come over him as she remained silent in response to his declaration. Finally, he licked his lip and asked quietly,

"Do you suppose, Georgie, that you could ever love me back?"

"I… I can not imagine a life in which I did not love you, Bilius, very much indeed." Georgiana felt her black eyes burning with insistent tears, and she felt her hands tremble as she reached up to cup Bilius' jaw. He leaned down and kissed her, quite gently, and she sighed against his mouth. He tasted just as she'd imagined he might - like hazelnut and peaches and something vaguely warm and pleasant. Nutmeg. More importantly, his scent washed over her as he kissed her, and he smelled exactly as he had since Georgiana had first noticed the aroma a decade earlier.

Like the salt spray of a crashing wave, like Earl Grey tea, like fresh oranges.

Georgiana kissed Bilius back more ferociously than she'd intended to do, pushing him by his shoulders until he stumbled backward against her front door. She stood on her tiptoes to reach him, and he ensnared her shoulders with his arms just as he'd done for years. This time, it felt different.

"Marry me," she heard him whisper, and she froze with her mouth just below his. His breath was warm and delicious as he asked again, "Please, Georgie. Be with me forever. Will you marry me?"

Georgiana nodded wordlessly, wondering somewhere in the back of her mind what exactly her parents would think about her marrying Bilius Weasley. But as she kissed him, she found she rather did not care what her parents thought. And she realised just how silly it was that she wasn't married to Bilius already.


	6. Chapter 6

_September 1956_

"Goodnight, Georgie. Sleep well, darling." Hermione turned away from Georgiana's bed, having tucked the girl beneath her quilts after a great many stories and a protracted bath.

"Oh! Mummy! I nearly forgot. Father wants to speak with you."

Hermione furrowed her brows. "What about?" she asked, though that seemed an admittedly foolish question to ask such a small child. Unfazed, Georgiana answered,

"He's got the Elder Wand! From the book, you know?"

Hermione felt a strange pang of unease then, as she realised just what Georgiana was referencing. Hermione had read _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ to Georgiana many times over. She had seen Tom's wand - Grindelwald's wand - many times over. She had never once paused to consider that her husband may be in possession of the mythical Elder Wand. She shook her head instinctively and whispered to Georgiana,

"Your father's been reading you silly stories again, hm? Thank you for telling me, Georgie. Sleep well."

She stepped through the threshold then, and was pulling the door shut behind her when she heard Georgiana's little voice say,

"Who's Albus Dumbledore?"

Hermione froze, feeling a frigid shockwave shoot up from her toes to her scalp. Her eyes burned instantly at the sound of Georgiana's question, and she pushed the door open and stared through the darkness at Georgiana's shadowy form.

"Where did you hear that name?" Hermione asked, trying to keep her tone light and neutral. Georgiana shrugged in the dim space and answered,

"Bellatrix Black's mum told her that there was a man called Albus Dumbledore. You and Father hated him very much; that's what Bella's mum told her. She said Father killed that man! It isn't true, is it, Mummy? Bella says Father got his wand when he killed a _different_ man. Why does Father go about killing people?"

Hermione felt queasy, overwhelmed with the gravity of Georgiana's questions. She stepped into the child's bedroom and urged Georgiana to lie back down. She petted the girl's raven curls and gave her a plastered-on, reassuring expression.

"Bellatrix Black sounds as though she likes silly stories, too," Hermione said, unsure of what else to say.

"So who was he?" Georgiana demanded again, her mouth cracking into an enormous yawn. She lay her head upon her pillow and snuggled into it, and Hermione asked gently,

"Who was _who_ , darling?"

"Albus Dumbledore!" Georgiana's voice was insistent even as sleep began to soak into her veins. Hermione pursed her lips and thought hard about how to answer her daughter. At last, she said,

"He was just a wizard. When I was young, I thought perhaps Albus Dumbledore was more than that. More than just a wizard. But it turned out he was just like everyone else - Light and Dark and everything in between, very easily blinded by hatred. But hatred always comes back around, Georgie. You understand?"

"Not really," Georgiana admitted, shaking her head against her pillowcase slowly. Hermione sighed lightly and stood in silent stillness for a few moments. She watched Georgiana as the girl's breathing slowed and she sank into a blissfully heavy sleep. Hermione lowered her eyes and whispered,

"Goodnight, Georgie."

Then she made her way from the bedchamber, striding quickly to the office where she knew Tom would be. She rapped three times upon the door, not waiting for an answer before she pushed it open. She was surprised to see Tom stooped over his desk, upon which a great many books and parchments had been spread out. He glanced up when she came in, raking his black hair from his eyes and muttering,

"She took her time letting you know."

"She's a child, Tom. She was distracted by the bubbles in the bath, things such as that. Now, what is all this nonsense about the Elder Wand?"

"I believe I am in possession of it," Tom said simply, standing up straight and crossing his arms over his chest. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"You can't be 'in possession of it,' Tom, because it is not real. It is part of a fairy tale. You understand?"

Tom glared at Hermione. His voice was tight and sharp when he spoke, "I do not appreciate your ridicule. I told our daughter the very same thing when she suggested this notion. But then I began reading. Early mediaeval records of a man - Antioch Peverell - who went from quite an ordinary wizard to a wealthy and powerful man, seemingly overnight. I inquired with the portrait of Armand Malfoy. This was after his lifetime, of course, but he vaguely remembers, many centuries ago, talk among his kin of a dangerous wizard whose enormous powers had seemingly materialised from the ether."

Hermione flattened her lips into a line. There was a sizeable part of her that did not want to accept that Tom held such a powerful instrument. The Elder Wand was rumoured to be the most powerful wand ever made. But it hadn't _been_ made, because it was not real. Hermione frowned deeply and suggested, "Perhaps Antioch Peverell was simply an incredible Dark wizard from humble origins. _That_ story sounds both plausible and familiar."

Tom gnawed on his bottom lip. He shut a few books and pulled one forward from the chaotic stack upon his desk. He jabbed his finger at the worn text, and Hermione walked up to his desk curiously. Tom pushed the book, centuries-old and yellowed, toward Hermione, and she read where he'd pointed.

 _Thus Egbert slaht the waerloga Emeric, The Moste Evile. And dyd Egbert, upon the dethe ofe Emeric, seise the Grete Wande ofe Elder Wude. Forthwithe, dyd the Grete Wande bi-liggen wyth Egbert…_

Hermione pulled her face up from the aged paper and stared meaningfully at Tom. He arched a dark brow at her with an 'I-told-you-so' sort of expression, but Hermione frowned and shook her head again.

"Yes. Emeric the Evil terrorised the south of England during the Middle Ages. And he was defeated in a great duel by Egbert the Egregious. Anyone who's got a rudimentary working knowledge of magical history knows that story inside and out."

"Including the part about the 'Great Wand of Elder Wood'?" Tom asked incredulously. He scoffed and shrugged. "I don't recall Professor Binns specifying that Egbert the Egregious took an elder wand from Emeric."

Hermione sighed and stared down at the old book again. Before she could think of a coherent way to dismiss what Tom was saying, he pushed another parchment before her. This one seemed newer - perhaps from the late 19th century - and in uneven handwriting, there was a full page of words in a Slavic language Hermione did not understand.

" _Intelligo Scriptura,_ " she murmured, dragging her wand over the top of the parchment. The ink seemed to steep into the parchment, disappearing and reappearing in the same handwriting, now in intelligible English.

 _Last night, I was working in my shop when a sudden commotion caught my attention. Before I could reach for my wand, much less defend myself, a ragged blond boy had jumped through my shop window. He Stunned me before I could strike him with fist or spell. When I awoke, the boy was gone, along with my wand. The wand of elder wood, with thestral core and power unknown in any other instrument of magic… gone. Gone in a flash of blue light. - M. Gregorovitch_

Hermione let out a rickety sigh. She did not want to accept that Tom possessed something like the 'Deathstick' of legend. But all of the papers and books Tom was shoving at her sent the same message - the Elder Wand was not only real, but its path could be relatively easily traced.

"You believe Gellert Grindelwald was the boy who stole the wand from Gregorovitch?" Hermione asked with a quiet sniff. Tom nodded slowly.

"And I took it from Grindelwald."

"The wand hardly makes its bearer invincible," Hermione insisted, sniffing dismissively. But Tom squared his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest.

"There were _three_ Hallows, you shall recall from the bedtime story. If one is real, why not all three?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes again. "You mean the Resurrection Stone and the Cloak of Invisibility?"

"I do." Tom nodded solemnly, and Hermione felt a terrible pang in her abdomen. She shut her eyes and began to tremble as she realised just how many pieces of Tom's puzzle she could assemble.

In her own time, she had known Albus Dumbledore to use a different wand than the one she'd seen him with in this existence. She remembered Dumbledore's wand being long and thin and nobbly - very much like the wand Tom had taken off of Gellert Grindelwald. And, of course, in Hermione's first timeline, Dumbledore had been renowned for his successful but non-lethal duel against Gellert Grindelwald in 1945. That duel had not taken place in this existence; instead of Dumbledore taking possession of Grindelwald's wand, it had been Tom to benefit from the wand's wavering loyalty.

Then there was the Invisibility Cloak. Hermione thought back to the times she had crouched under Harry Potter's Invisibility Cloak, all the times Harry and Ron and she had used it to get into terrible mischief. The cloak had come from Harry's father James, Hermione knew. It was an old family heirloom. That was what Dumbledore had told Hermione.

She wrenched her eyes more tightly shut, knowing that a betrayal of the Potter family would not affect the reality of this timeline. She had already come to accept that Harry Potter would never exist in this world. So she gritted her teeth and mumbled to Tom,

"I know where one of the other two Hallows is. It's with the Potter family."

There was a terrible silence then, and Hermione cracked her eyes to see Tom staring at her with wide, curious eyes.

" _Legilimens,_ " he whispered, more to warn Hermione that he was about to enter her mind than to activate his powers. She tossed aside her Occlumency shields and let him in, showing him the time she and Ron and Harry had huddled beneath the cloak to visit Hagrid upon learning of the hippogriff Buckbeak's death sentence. Then she showed Tom the time she and Harry had used the cloak to sneak back into Dolores Umbridge's office the night of the Battle of the Department of Mysteries.

Tom pulled out of Hermione's mind abruptly, and she staggered backward from the dizzying force of his withdrawal. He cleared his throat and looked a bit uncomfortable. Hermione sighed. She knew what he was thinking. All her memories of Harry's Invisibility Cloak had something to do with the awful man Tom had become in Hermione's first life.

"If I attain all three Hallows, I shall be Master of Death," Tom said thoughtfully. Hermione nodded, feeling a bit defeated as she realised she had failed once again to keep Tom from sinking into Darkness. But then Tom cleared his throat again murmured quietly, "I am not certain what good that does me. A man without fear of death is like to make unwise decisions, I should think. Even the most powerful leaders ought to have a healthy fear of their own demise, hm?"

Hermione quivered where she stood, feeling confused. The Lord Voldemort she had feared as a young girl cared _only_ about immortality. How could Tom - her husband, Tom - stand before her now and profess that he did not care about dying?

"The Potters have the cloak, Tom," she said again, giving him a curt little nod and turning for the office door. "If there's nothing else you need, I'm off to bed. It tires me considerably to have you invade my consciousness."

* * *

 _September 1949_

Lord Voldemort cracked his knuckles together and sipped from his mug of butterbeer, raising his eyes to scan the tavern about him. It was pouring rain outdoors in Mould-on-the-Wold, and it seemed as though the entire damned village was inside the tavern. The dark wooden walls reverberated with laughter and conversation, and in a corner someone was plucking a harp with a merry tune. Voldemort felt anything but jovial; he was practically bursting with anticipation as he waited for Albus Dumbledore to appear.

"Can I get you anything else, love?"

Voldemort glanced up at the pretty blonde barmaid who had stopped by his table again. He shook his head but said nothing, and she shrugged and walked away. Voldemort had transfigured his features dramatically in order to ambush Dumbledore undercover. He had changed his black hair to strawberry blond, had strewn pale freckles about his face and reshaped his jaw, and had made himself shorter and a bit more squat. He looked nothing at all like himself, Voldemort had decided upon leaving Malfoy Manor, and anyone would be hard-pressed to identify him. He pulled a dog-eared copy of the _Daily Prophet_ across the table and drank from his butterbeer again. He pretended to read coverage of the weekend's Quidditch matches, but his ears pricked up at the sound of the voice to his right.

"Thank you, Embla, my dear. A warm cider and some fresh bread will do just fine for now."

Voldemort flicked his eyes to the table beside him, then immediately lowered them again. Albus Dumbledore had sauntered into the tavern, his heavy scarlet robes soaked from the rain. Voldemort watched from his peripheral vision as the blonde barmaid took Dumbledore's outer cloak from him and dried it with her wand.

"Any soup today, Professor?" she asked, and suddenly Voldemort realised he'd gone to school with the barmaid. Embla Sweetwater. She had been a Hufflepuff a year or two younger than him. Voldemort frowned down at his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ again, pulling the Quidditch coverage out and setting it aside. He pretended not to notice the quiet sigh as Albus Dumbledore settled into the chair beside him.

"Pardon me, but if you are not reading the sport section at present, might I borrow it?"

Voldemort ground his teeth and picked up the newspaper pages he'd just set aside. He squared his jaw and readied himself, and then he held the newspaper out to Dumbledore beside him. Eye contact would be crucial for success, but it was critical that no one notice what was happening. Voldemort held out the newspaper, and he heard Dumbledore say,

"Thank you, sir."

But Voldemort did not release the newspaper pages into Dumbledore's hand. He pulled back a bit, and Dumbledore glanced up in alarmed confusion. Voldemort raised his own eyes, and, the instant he met Dumbledore's, he thought with all his might,

 _Imperio!_

He immediately felt a buzzing warmth in the air about him, and he willed Dumbledore to release the newspaper. But Dumbledore's hand tightened around the pages, and his pale blue eyes flashed. Voldemort grunted quietly, knowing that Dumbledore was a powerful enough wizard to overcome a wandless Imperius Curse. Voldemort reached briskly inside of his robe and surreptitiously directed Grindelwald's old wand at Dumbledore beneath the table.

 _IMPERIO!_ he thought again, this time throwing so much of his power behind the spell that Dumbledore's eyes rolled back in his head. Dumbledore instantly released the newspaper, and Voldemort knew he had possession of his enemy's mind.

 _I am going to step out into the street,_ he thought, _and in five minutes' time, you shall join me and take me to your home. I am going to step out into the street, and in five minutes' time, you shall join me and take me to your home. You have five minutes to be outside in the street._

Without another word, Voldemort stood and tossed down a few coins to the table. They were still clattering on the wooden surface as Voldemort made his way out into the rain. He paced rather anxiously beneath the covered entrance to the tavern, shutting his eyes for a moment and trying to swell up his power again. Simply ensnaring Dumbledore in an effective Imperius had felt oddly draining.

Precisely five minutes later, the front door of the tavern opened, and Albus Dumbledore sauntered outside. He did not look substantially different than he'd done before, though there was a strange lack of emotion in his pale blue eyes.

"Come to my house, won't you?" Dumbledore asked numbly, starting off down the wet and muddy street. Voldemort followed him with a smirk, glad that the rain had forced everyone off of the streets. He followed Dumbledore for a while, until they reached a small, rickety Tudor house. Dumbledore unwarded the door with a wave of his wand and stepped inside, beckoning for Voldemort to follow. The house was cramped and dank, smelling of old books and sour wine. Voldemort glanced about the home, looking rather nervously for any portraits that might witness his crime. But there did not appear to be any portraits at all; the place was surprisingly sparse for a wizard so well-known as Albus Dumbledore.

" _Accio_ parchment and quill," Voldemort muttered, and a moment later the requested supplies came whizzing from a small room off the entryway. Voldemort snatched the quill and parchment out of the air and placed them down upon the tiny kitchen table. He pulled out a chair and gestured for Dumbledore to sit. The other man did, without so much as a hesitant glance. He picked up the quill in his right hand and asked rather meekly,

"What shall I write, Mr Riddle?"

"You may address me as 'My Lord,' for these last few moments," Voldemort sneered. Then, answering Dumbledore's question, he said, "Write these words - do not change a single letter. _To my friends and enemies alike - It is with profound embarrassment that I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, make an admission to you all. For nearly the past five years, I have been a man in mourning. Most of you were much relieved upon learning of Gellert Grindelwald's death. While I publicly stated happiness about Grindelwald's demise, my truth is not so clean as all that._

 _Gellert Grindelwald and I were as close as two friends could ever be - perhaps even closer. My affection for Grindelwald wavered and was even briefly eclipsed by a deep sense of horror at the wicked deeds I saw him do. Despite my disgust for Grindelwald's political message and tactics, however, I could never completely rid myself of a small ember of hope that he would repent, that he would become my dear companion again._

 _Then, nearly five years ago, that ember was snuffed out entirely. Gellert Grindelwald was killed by the young Lord Voldemort, a wizard whose ascent to the position of 'Reigning Dark Lord' seems utterly inescapable. Believe me, friends, I have tried my hardest to stop Voldemort. After all, it was he who slayed Grindelwald. But nothing I've done has so much as dented Voldemort's meteoric rise. On the contrary, he and his followers have seemed to feed off of my distaste._

 _I apologise profusely to the parents in the wizarding world whose children may well wonder why it is 'Professor Dumbledore' killed himself. To those children, I would simply say this: For years on end, I have persisted in insisting (to myself and others) that life always has meaning and is always worth living. Yet, here I sit, a man desolately lonely and utterly unable to stem the rising tide of my enemy. 'Live in the present,' I have cautioned others. 'Do not look back to the past, and do not perseverate upon the future. Live in the present.'_

 _Well, my present is so Dark and bleak that I see no other option at this point. The wizarding world does not thrive upon chaos or conflict. The wizarding world thrives upon peace. So long as Lord Voldemort and Albus Dumbledore are both alive, there shall be conflict and chaos. And I can not see a way beside this one._

 _Goodbye, friends and enemies alike. Think fondly, but briefly, of me… and then continue on in the present._

 _With sincere regret for my many failures,_

 _Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."_

Voldemort twirled his wand in his fingers as he waited for Dumbledore to finish writing the suicide note. He sniffed lightly, wondering what Hermione was doing just now. She was probably lost in her scruples again, unable to reconcile the reality she had once known with the one she was living. But Voldemort could not dwell on Hermione's emotions just now. There was work to be done.

Voldemort pulled the small vial of Baneberry Potion from his robes. He used his wand to levitate the vial, and then he set it down upon the desk where Dumbledore sat, still scribbling. Voldemort Scoured the outside of the vial, ridding the glass of any trace fingerprints. Dumbledore's quill flourished as he signed his name, and then the quill was set back down.

"Do you mean to kill me, My Lord?" Dumbledore's dull voice asked, and Voldemort nearly laughed aloud to hear the almighty Albus Dumbledore speak so deferentially to him. He steadied his face and commanded sharply,

"Drink the potion, Dumbledore."

There was the briefest moment of hesitation, and Voldemort felt an odd push in his mind. He knew that some niggling scrap of Dumbledore's soul was still outside the influence of the Imperius Curse, straining to break free and overcome the spell. Knowing time was of the essence, Voldemort cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes at the back of Dumbledore's head.

"Drink it," he snarled, his voice low and rumbling. Instantly, Dumbledore's shaking hands reached for the vial and uncorked it. Voldemort watched as Dumbledore quietly brought the vial to his lips and drank the syrupy red poison. Dumbledore set down the empty vial and turned to face Voldemort.

The flash of resistance came over Dumbledore's pale eyes again, and for a brief moment Voldemort could tell the man had broken from the Imperius.

"I am not afraid, Mr Riddle," Dumbledore said, his voice suddenly clear. "There are many more lives than this one, and I am quite certain I am enjoying one or two of them."

" _Imperio._ Rise, you fool!" Voldemort slashed his wand through the air at Dumbledore, re-establishing control as the other wizard flew to his feet from the chair. But, nearly as quickly as he'd stood, Dumbledore crumpled, falling to the ground in a convulsing heap.

Voldemort took a step back, watching with a strange twinge in his belly as Dumbledore had a long and violent seizure on the floor. In a most undignified fashion, Dumbledore's beard tangled and his robes pulled upward immodestly. Voldemort waited for Dumbledore to stop seizing, and then he used his wand to adjust his enemy's appearance. It would not do for people to pity Dumbledore upon finding him here.

Voldemort paced in the room for five full minutes, listening to Dumbledore's breathing grow weaker and quieter. At last, the heap on the floor stopped moving altogether, and there was only silence.

" _Mortuum Rutilans,_ " Voldemort whispered, drawing a circle with the tip of his wand. The silent, unmoving heap that had once been Dumbledore glowed with an eerie silver light for a moment, revealing that he was indeed dead.

Voldemort stared at Dumbledore's form for a long moment, distantly registering the howl of the wind and rain outside. Then he shut his eyes and turned where he stood. With a _crack!_ he Disapparated back to Malfoy Manor, leaving the corpse of Albus Dumbledore alone, waiting to be found.

* * *

 _September 1956_

Hermione stared for a great long while at the worn, yellowed page before her.

"Tom," she murmured quietly, gesturing across the office to him. Tom frowned and rose from the armchair before the fire where he'd been reading a book of his own. He stepped behind Hermione and leaned around her shoulder to peer at the page on the desk. She shut her eyes, trying to ignore the way his scent overpowered her. Even now, even at thirty years of age and twelve years after meeting her, Tom possessed all manner of devastating ability to make Hermione swoon.

She cleared her throat rather roughly and sat up straighter in her chair. She jabbed her finger at the page before her and insisted,

"I've seen this before. Not just in the books. I can't remember where, but..."

She was referring to a symbol, a drawing in the centre of the page. It was a triangle, cut through with a line and a circle. Hermione had been seeing the symbol over and over again throughout her research on the Deathly Hallows. It seemed to be a unifying image used throughout the ages to represent the story, the brothers, and the Hallows themselves. In this particular instance, it had been drawn into the middle of a letter between two 17th century wizards corresponding speculatively about the Invisibility Cloak. Hermione turned over her shoulder and stared up at Tom questioningly. He sniffed and said in a quiet voice,

"I was told it was the Peverell coat of arms, though that 'information' came from a notoriously slow-minded relative of mine who seemed determined to hold fast to long-faded family glory."

Hermione frowned, her stomach sinking as she thought of Tom's terrible past in the Muggle orphanage. What 'relative' would have told her about a Peverell coat of arms? Only his uncle Morfin, she thought, would have been alive to tell him such a thing. She gulped and asked,

"Why were you speaking with Morfin about the Peverell coat of arms?"

Tom stiffened, standing up straight and yanking at the sleeves of his robe. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and stared at Hermione for a long moment. Then, rather unexpectedly, he pulled off the ring he wore on his right hand and tossed it down onto the desk. The beastly old ring - the Gaunt family ring - clattered upon the wood, rocking and spinning and finally coming to rest. When the ring stilled, its cloudy black stone was facing Hermione, and she realised that there was a marking upon it. She picked up the ring and stared at the black stone. There, etched into the ancient ring, was the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. Hermione had noticed the odd design before, but for some reason she'd paid so little attention to Tom's unattractive family heirloom that she hadn't connected it with the symbol from the books. Only some small, niggling part of her mind recognised the symbol. She turned the ring over in her hand a few times, contemplating the meaning of the discovery.

A cloak of invisibility, passed through the pureblood Potter family over many years. The Potters of Godric's Hollow, where Hermione's research indicated the Peverells had lived.

The Peverell 'coat of arms.' A rough-hewn, ugly old piece of jewelry handed down through the ages from one Gaunt to another. The Gaunts, direct descendents of the Peverells.

"Tom, I think -" Hermione began, but Tom snatched the ring roughly from her hands by way of interruption. He stepped briskly over to the window and stared out into the rainy night as he clutched the ring close to him. Hermione rose on shaky legs from her chair and asked, "Do you mean to take the Cloak from the Potter family?"

"Would you like me to take the Cloak from the Potter family?" Tom asked, his voice little more than a cracked whisper. Hermione squared her jaw and met Tom's eyes in his reflection. She shook her head slowly.

"No."

"All right, then. Put these books away. There's no need to bother with any more of this silliness at the present time. I've certainly got more important things to occupy my attentions."

Hermione stared at Tom's reflection and said nothing. After awhile, his eyes flicked away from hers and he stared back out the window. His fingers anxiously turned the ring round and round. Hermione straightened her spine and nodded formally.

"If there's nothing else you need…"

"Goodnight, My Lady."

* * *

 _September 1949_

Hermione wound her way briskly through Diagon Alley. She wished she had been able to disguise herself, for she was better-known now than ever, and she found herself nodding politely to countless passers-by. But it was important, Tom had said, that _she_ be the one to feel out the crowds, the general sentiment of the wizarding public. It was all well and good, Tom had told Hermione, to have reports from his cronies about the aftermath of Dumbledore's death. But the only way to know whether ordinary witches and wizards suspected Tom - or blamed him for any wrongdoing - was to send his wife out into the field.

So Hermione pretended she had a good reason to be in Diagon Alley. She purchased a few stock items from the Apothecary and piddled about the bookshop until she found a relatively interesting-looking tome on the various uses of unicorn materials. In those stores, Hermione encountered either mild friendliness or utter lack of interest. Certainly, there was no one who seemed outwardly hostile toward her. Hermione made her way to Knockturn Alley, ignoring the shiver down her spine as she purchased an Eternal Glass Squirrel's Eyeball from Borgin and Burke's.

Well, perhaps 'purchased' was the wrong word. Hermione walked into Borgin and Burke's and was immediately greeted by several fawning purebloods and their friends. Caractacus Burke practically fell over his ancient self rushing to wrap and box the squirrel's eyeball for Hermione, and she had to argue to force him to accept payment.

Feeling an odd rush, an unsettling mix of confidence and unease, Hermione made her way back into the sunny twists of Diagon Alley. She settled into the Three Broomsticks and ordered a pumpkin cake and a butterbeer, relishing the scents and tastes of autumn. Then she pretended to read her book on unicorns. Instead, she listened to the conversations around her and flicked her eyes about carefully.

There were four separate groups of people reading today's _Daily Prophet._ The front page bore an unflattering image of Albus Dumbledore, taken outdoors at a Quidditch match when he had a particularly mad-looking expression upon his face. Hermione felt a coil of nausea in her stomach at the sight of the once-celebrated wizard, wondering what had happened to the kindly old man who had been a mentor to her as a child. The headline of the _Prophet_ screamed,

 _DUMBLEDORE'S LAST DAYS: GONE BATTY IN ISOLATION - Details inside._

So the press was on Tom's side, then.

Hermione sourly sipped on her butterbeer and eavesdropped upon the conversation beside her.

"They say the old man took Baneberry Potion," one elderly witch was saying. She flicked her wand toward her knitting project, which was hovering in the air before her, in order to switch the colour of the yarn. Her friend nodded.

"They printed the entire suicide note just yesterday, Dovina, didn't you see? He confessed he was in love with Gellert Grindelwald. He admitted he'd done wrong. And he said that he was making way for…"

The second old witch trailed off, and Hermione felt her cheeks flush warm as the other table went quiet. They knew Hermione was there. They knew she was listening. Hermione cleared her throat and stared intently at a word in the centre of the page of her unicorn book. The old witch beside her said steadily,

"Said he was making way for the Dark Lord. And rightly so, I should think."

"Quite right," the other witch nodded firmly. Hermione licked her bottom lip and set down her book, folding it shut gently. She turned to the old witches and said carefully,

"I don't mean to intrude, ladies, but… might I ask your names?" For a brief moment, the witches looked terrified, and Hermione felt a pang of guilt. She clarified, "I should like to tell my husband of your loyalty. So that he may know to be grateful to you."

The two witches perked up then. The one with the knitting grinned and stammered, "M-my name is D-Dovina Martingale, My Lady, and this is my friend, Sagitta Black Bulstrode."

"It is an honour," Hermione assured the women, rising from her seat. When she did, the elderly witches moved to stand as well, but Hermione motioned them to stay seated. Hermione pulled out a few coins (more than the women's tea and biscuits would cost) and placed them upon the table. She kept her hand upon the coins and looked from one witch to the other. She could feel countless eyes in the pub upon her. "May my husband count upon your loyalty going forward, Madam Martingale? Madam Bulstrode?"

"Of course, My Lady." Sagitta Black Bulstrode inclined her face gracefully, and Dovina Martingale nodded so vigorously that her white hair came loose from its pin. Hermione smiled warmly.

"Splendid," she affirmed. "Have a pleasant afternoon."

As Hermione made her way back outdoors and prepared to go back to Malfoy Manor, she realised just what a position Tom was in. Dumbledore was gone. Quite more specifically, Lord Voldemort had murdered Dumbledore, and it seemed that in doing so, the final threat to Voldemort's ascent had been eradicated. Hermione felt odd twists and pulls of emotion as she calibrated that knowledge. As she became lost in thought, she drifted into Flourish and Blotts, hoping that one more book might put her mind at ease. She ghosted her fingers over the book spines as she perused the shelves, but then something caught her eye.

There was a man toward the end of the shelves who seemed vaguely out of place. Hermione glanced briefly at him, then locked her eyes upon him. The man wore denims that were clearly not from the 1940s, even in Muggle fashion. He wore a tweed sportcoat and white trainers. Hermione furrowed her brow, feeling abruptly uneasy. Then the man tilted his head, and Hermione saw the round-framed glasses upon his face. The jet-black hair upon his head, the features of his face. The longer she stared, the more convinced she became that Harry Potter was standing in Flourish and Blotts.

Somehow, Hermione had the presence of mind not to shout at him. Instead, she walked slowly through the empty, narrow passageway between shelves. Harry didn't look up. He was holding a stack of books - _textbooks?_ \- and flipping through the topmost tome. As Hermione neared him, her heart hammered so insistently in her chest that she thought she might faint. She swallowed the lump in her throat and croaked,

"Harry?"

He did look up at that, and it was then that Hermione realised how he'd changed. The books weren't schoolbooks, because Harry was older. He wasn't any taller than Hermione remembered, but his face was sharper. His emerald eyes looked tired. But it was Harry - _her_ Harry. Hermione rushed forward impulsively, all sense of reason and restraint utterly gone. For all she'd worried about someone seeing and judging her actions, Hermione suddenly cared only about touching Harry, about touching her old life again.

"Hermione." Harry dropped the stack of books in his arms and they clattered to the floor. Hermione spared them a fleeting, apologetic glance, and then she reached for Harry's elbow. When she touched his jacket, though, Harry's wide grin vanished, and the crinkles around his tired green eyes deepened.

She wanted to ask Harry what on Earth he was doing here. How he had come to 1949, how it was that he _existed_ , given the fact that Hermione had thought that timeline gone forever. Where Ron was, what he'd been doing in the past five years since she'd seen him. But there was a sudden voice behind her, and Hermione whirled round as a perky young witch asked,

"Madam, is everything all right? I heard books falling."

Hermione nodded frantically. "It's fine," she insisted. "I just -" She turned back to Harry to gesture to the books he'd dropped. When she did, she struggled not to gasp, not to cry out.

Harry was gone. There was nothing but the worn wooden floor and the bookshelves. Hermione stared at the empty spot where Harry had been and thought desperately. The shop girl had heard Harry drop the books. He hadn't been a hallucination, then. He had been real. But he was gone now. Where? Hermione gulped hard and muttered to the girl behind her,

"I'm quite all right. Thank you."

"Yes, My Lady. Please call if there's anything you need."

* * *

 _September 1949_

Lord Voldemort sipped at his tumbler of whiskey and paced before the fireplace. He made a mental note to slow his steps. It was important that Hermione perceive him to be calm, though of course he was not. Voldemort focused on the soft sound of the early autumn rain outside and took a steadying breath, followed by more whiskey.

"Have I gone quite mad, Tom?" Hermione asked for the seventh time since she'd come home. Voldemort shook his head and said once more,

"No, I don't suppose you have, Hermione." He sipped at the whiskey again. It was his second tumbler, and nearly empty. The room was becoming a bit hazy and unsteady at this point.

"The girl in the shop heard him drop the books," Hermione told Voldemort, and he nodded crisply.

"So you've told me." He swigged the last of the whiskey and set the empty tumbler down upon the mantle. He tapped the top of the antique clock there and sighed as he turned to where Hermione sat. She nervously rearranged herself in the armchair, and Voldemort said as gently as he could, "I have come to believe, Hermione, that there may be more than one existence at once. In fact, I believe it's quite likely that there are multiple existences. All of them carry on their own timelines, shaped and crafted by choices that spur ever more timelines and existences. Choices don't _erase_ timelines, Hermione. They only create them. That's what I've come to believe. And I think when you saw Harry Potter in that book shop, somehow this existence and another crossed paths for a brief moment."

Hermione was silent. She sipped at her own whiskey, her hand shaking fiercely as she brought the glass to her lips. She stared into the fire and whispered,

"I felt very strange after he'd gone. I thought perhaps it would be… as though he'd died. Like losing him again, you know? But it wasn't. It was almost…" She looked guilty then, wincing and licking her lip as she hesitated. Voldemort quirked up an eyebrow curiously and took a step nearer to Hermione to encourage her. She huffed and said, "It was almost a relief that he disappeared. It was overwhelming to contemplate that I would somehow have to reconcile the life I've made here with the sudden appearance of Harry Potter. My heart wanted him to be my old childhood friend, my mind… the Dark mind you've twisted, Tom… that mind knows that Harry Potter was Lord Voldemort's mortal enemy. And I am the wife of Lord Voldemort."

She drank her whiskey so deeply then that Voldemort worried she might be sick. He gently took the tumbler from her hand and set it down. Hermione stared at him with glassy eyes as he tipped her chin up.

"You _are_ my wife," he affirmed, "and I love you fiercely. But he was your friend. I can not speak to my enmity with the boy, as I have not experienced even a moment of his existence." Voldemort withdrew his hand, listening as the rain outside fell harder. He shut his eyes and breathed in the ozone, the warm marine scent of the rain storm. Then he asked Hermione, "Have you ever wanted to go back?"

She didn't answer him for a long time. When at last she spoke, Hermione said carefully, "When I was first sent back in time, I spent many nights trying to figure out how to get back. But then you killed Ladon Scamander, and I began to wonder whether the life I'd known existed anymore. Then the idea of going back became rather terrifying. What if I went forward in time and found my friends and family were gone, but I couldn't return here to you? Then I'd have nothing. I… resigned myself, in a way. I decided it would be better to make a life here and briefly mourn those I'd left behind."

Voldemort sucked in air and opened his eyes. He stalked about the library of Malfoy Manor slowly, his eyes washing over the carved mahogany, porcelain vases, and rich tapestries. He sucked on his cheek and said to Hermione,

"So you were never expecting to see any of them again. You'd counted them dead - Ginevra Weasley, Ron Weasley, your parents. Harry Potter."

"Yes. I'd counted them dead. I'd mourned them. And I'd become your wife. But then… there he was, plain as day and audible to other people. Standing before me, a ghost who hasn't been born."

Lord Voldemort knew in that instant just how essential it was that Harry Potter never be born, at least not in this existence. What had happened in the book store today may well have been a fluke overlapping of timelines and existences. Or, perhaps it had been something more sinister. Either way, the boy - Harry Potter - had spelled doom for Lord Voldemort in Hermione's old life. Voldemort knew it would be essential to keep the boy from being born this time round.

* * *

 _September 1956_

" _Imperio!"_

Charlus Potter bent to Voldemort's will like a rush in the wind. The handsome young wizard looked eerily like Voldemort himself, with a tall stature and black hair. But he wore horn-rimmed glasses and was ten years older, and his face was more round with Gryffindor cheer. Charlus Potter rose from his chair as Voldemort dragged his wand upward through the air, using his left hand to push shut the door he'd burst through.

"Give me the Cloak of Invisibility," Voldemort ordered.

"Yes, My Lord," Charlus Potter nodded. As Voldemort followed the man through narrow corridors and into a small bedroom, he could not help but smirk. _This_ was the man guarding a Hallow? _This_ was the grandfather of the Harry Potter who would bring down Voldemort? It was almost laughable, the way Charlus kept pushing up the nose bridge of his horn-rimmed glasses and sniffling. The man was a joke. He crouched in the little bedroom and opened an old, fine-looking cedar chest. Voldemort's heart thudded as he watched Charlus pull out the only object in the chest. It was a neatly-folded cloth, designed to look like heavy brocade but light and flowing like satin. Charlus Potter obediently handed over the cloth to Voldemort, who wasted no time in unfurling the Cloak and covering himself to test the effects. Sure enough, when he glanced down at his own covered limbs, they had disappeared. Voldemort chuckled under his breath, feeling his laughter deep in the back of his throat.

He tore the Cloak from his body, balling up the burgundy material in his fists. Charlus Potter swayed limply on his feet before Voldemort, who smirked as he murmured,

"Thank you, Charlus. You've been very helpful indeed. _Avada Kedavra._ "

The green light burst forth from the Elder Wand like an explosion of glowing emerald shards. The curse hit Charlus Potter square in the chest, and he silently crumpled to the floor like a rag doll. Voldemort felt a strange surge in his veins, that familiar satisfaction that came from killing.

He turned his attention back to the Cloak in his hands. He stared down at the material, knowing that now he possessed all three of the legendary Deathly Hallows. But to what end? And what would be the result of feeling beholden to mythological objects? Lord Voldemort was fast becoming the most powerful Dark wizard who had ever lived. No enemy stood between him and absolute power - certainly no one who couldn't be defeated without the assistance of a blanket, a twig, and a pebble. The legend declared that he who commanded all three Hallows at once would be Master of Death, invincible and immortal. But Voldemort pondered that such an outcome would be little more than a curse.

In any case, there were fates far worse than death. He could think of countless ways in which an immortal existence wouldn't suit him, and an uncomfortable number of those scenarios included mortal Hermione and Georgiana. He needed power in this one life, and he would take it and hold it on his own.

Voldemort gritted his teeth and jabbed his wand at the lump of material in his hands. _Evanesco,_ Voldemort thought, feeling magic surge forth from the Elder Wand. Then the Invisibility Cloak was gone, having disappeared into the ether. Voldemort stared at his empty hands and felt laughter gurgling up through his chest. The laughter rose, inexplicably, until he stood maniacally cackling like a madman in the centre of the bedroom. Before him, Charlus Potter lay dead on the floor. Voldemort Vanished the corpse, knowing that now Harry Potter could never be born.

It had been a very fine day.

* * *

 _September 1956_

"... _and the sting of the Manticore causes instant death._ Does it really, Mummy?"

Hermione found herself chuckling as she glanced over her shoulder to the desk where Georgiana had curled up with a large book. Recently, Georgiana had learnt to read properly, and she had begun voraciously absorbing every book she could. Including _Composite Beasts From The East._ Hermione sighed as she demanded,

"I'm so very glad you enjoy reading, Georgie, but wouldn't you rather read something more pleasant? Stories about spiders in the garden, perhaps, or the cat and dog who were friends?"

Georgiana wrinkled her face and stuck her tongue out petulantly. Before Hermione could chastise the girl, Georgiana said excitedly, "Oh, but I _did_ get a Chocolate Frog Card on Archibald Alderton! Have we a book on him?"

Hermione crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. "Archibald Alderton? The man who blew up a village trying to bake a cake?" she asked sceptically. Georgiana nodded frantically and hopped down from her chair.

"Yes, _him_!" Georgie cried, dashing over to the rolling ladder. She started to scramble up the pegs, and Hermione shook her head in disbelief as she followed the child. She laughed to see Georgiana's enthusiasm, but her laughter died when the library door flew open with a _bang._

Hermione gasped and whirled over her shoulder to see Tom in the threshold, looking blustery and breathless. His black eyes glittered and his sharp cheekbones were red. Hermione knew the look full well. He'd done something terrible, and he was awfully pleased with himself.

Trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach, as well as Georgiana's confused whimper, she said softly,

"Georgie, go play in your bedroom for a while."

"But, Mummy, I -"

"Your mother just gave you an instruction, Georgiana. You must obey her." Tom's eyes flashed brighter than ever at the little girl, and Georgiana murmured apologies as she scurried from the library. Tom shut the door behind her, and Hermione heard the lock click as he nonverbally charmed it. She gulped, wondering what he'd done. As it turned out, she didn't have to ask.

"I destroyed the Cloak of Invisibility," Tom said sharply, still facing the door. Hermione felt her breath hitch in her throat. She wasn't quite as shocked to hear him say those words as she might have expected to be. But she had spent several nights wondering what good it would do for Tom to attain immortality only for himself. It would be a burden, in a way, for Tom to know he would live forever whilst she and Georgie would die. Tom would scramble to find ways to save them. He would grow complacent against enemies, and he would lose power but stay alive. It would be torture. It would not give any of them the life they wanted. The life they'd fought to achieve.

So, in many ways, Hermione was very relieved to hear that the Invisibility Cloak was gone. There was a strange pulling in her chest as she thought back to childhood memories with the Cloak, with Harry and Ron, sneaking about school and on missions more serious. Triggered by her memories, Hermione forced herself to ask,

"What of Charlus Potter?"

"He is dead," Tom said simply. He turned round and stared at Hermione intensely, his shimmering black eyes searching hers for a reaction. Hermione tipped her chin up and forced a stony blankness on her face. Charlus Potter was dead. That was no surprise, but it _was_ a guarantee that Harry Potter could never be born. But it shouldn't matter; Hermione had already counted Harry dead. She hadn't even seen the boy in seven years, and only then in a brief and hallucinogenic mirage. Harry Potter was a ghost of a world that would never be. So was his Cloak, and the memories Hermione had made with it.

She had a daughter here. She had a husband here. This world, this path, this timeline… this was her life. This was her reality. She had better live it, Hermione thought, and she had better live it well.

Tom shook her from her reverie as he crossed the library briskly, tearing off his outer robe and letting it fall to the floor behind him. Hermione quickly realised what he wanted. Power aroused Tom. Killing aroused him. That thought nauseated Hermione somewhere in a recess of her mind that was growing smaller every day.

He was so very handsome at thirty years of age, she thought. His thin form had filled out a bit, still lean and toned but more muscular and substantial. As Tom collided with Hermione and crushed her mouth with a fierce kiss, his aroma washed over her. Rosewood, soap, cinnamon, and iron. The scent that had assaulted her that very first Potions lesson, then had drawn her near him, and now served as a sort of security blanket between the two of them. His taste, warm and sweet and fresh, was delicious as he licked and nibbled at her mouth.

He was being insistent, Hermione noted. His hands moved swiftly and with a distinct lack of care as they stripped off her robes. She shimmied out of her clothing, trying to maintain their kiss and keep up with his urgency. She felt herself being pushed backward and stumbled a bit. Tom swept his hand into the small of her back to catch her and murmured against her mouth,

"I need… it needs to be rough, Hermione. It can't be gentle."

Hermione had become quite adept over the years at shedding her own determined and fierce outer layer for him in situations such as this. She nodded and put her mask of submission on, staring up at him through her eyelashes as she whispered,

"What do you want, My Lord?"

His hand flew to her jaw and cupped her chin so hard Hermione whimpered and winced.

"Do not call me that," Tom growled, and Hermione counted an internal victory. She'd called him 'My Lord' precisely because she knew he hated to hear her say it. Of everyone else he encountered, Tom demanded the honorific, but from Hermione he refused it. At least in private. Hermione wriggled against his hand and asked quietly,

"Why don't you just show me what you want?"

"Full permission?" he snarled, dragging his thumb over Hermione's bottom lip as she nodded slowly. His dark eyes flashed, and he pointedly whispered,

"Come for me."

Hermione almost giggled at that, for she still had her knickers and bra on and he'd scarcely touched her. But she didn't want to seem like she was laughing at him, so instead she quirked up half her mouth and said coyly,

"I'm not quite ready. Will you help me."

"Certainly," Tom nodded, pushing Hermione's shoulder roughly so she backed up against the bookshelf. Then he dragged the tip of his wand - the Elder Wand - around the leg of Hermione's knickers. He latched onto her neck and kissed so hard Hermione knew there would be marks. She cried out and nearly missed it as he mumbled, " _Statimgaudens._ "

Her knees buckled and she crumpled against the bookshelves as the immediate climax hit her. Powerful, almost overwhelming, it sent her head spinning and her ears ringing as her body clenched and tensed and warmed. Hermione moaned Tom's name and reached out to hold onto his shoulders lest she fall. She was just managing to recover, just reaching to take his hard member from his trousers, when she heard him snarl,

"Again, Hermione. Now. _Statimgaudens._ "

Even as she came again, Hermione could tell what Tom was doing. He was using magic to make her submit to him as his wife, his sexual partner, because today he needed to know that his magic was all-powerful. She let him throw the spell at her, again and again, until she was sore and aching and exhausted. By the seventh climax, Hermione felt tears of protest worm their way from her eyes. She was drooling onto his shoulder and didn't care. She was covered in a sheen of sweat and probably smelled awful. Her knickers and bra had disappeared and he had, at some point, put his cock inside of her. But Hermione was so tired that she was numb to both pleasure and pain. He grunted and pounded her roughly against the bookshelves as he finished inside of her, his seed pumping alongside his magic as he reassured himself of his strength.

Hours later, in bed, Hermione curled up beside him and felt him kiss her hair.

"Didn't you want to get the three Hallows together and just see what happened?" she asked thoughtfully. "You could always decide to destroy one later."

"I had them all as I stood there, with Charlus Potter Imperiused before me. I wore the Resurrection Stone on my right hand and carried the Elder Wand. And the fool handed me the Cloak. I had all three, Hermione. But the very best thing those united Hallows could promise me would be a life of eternal emptiness, and that's not anything I want."

"Well," Hermione whispered, trying not to sound bitter, "You do always get what you want."

Tom kissed her hair again. "Yes, I do."


End file.
